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By Mia Hahn

This is not who I am,

This is how you perceive me.

I say what I’m feeling,

You say what you think I’m feeling.

I try to make you understand that this is not me

Since I am a complex creature

With complex feelings.

So please

I beg you

To stop with the-

That’s just what you are

Allow me to speak my mind,

And don’t disregard me

Because only I can know what I am feeling

And not you

Because what is true

Is true

And what is not

Is not who I am.

Back to Earth

By Elana Felig

What I want is nowhere in my proximity

The closer I get-- the more I realize that progress is harder than I thought

Because I am stuck here

In a timeless area with possible catastrophes

If I ever do get back to my true habitat

It will be too late

Everyone I knew will have a new life

They will have a new space of their own

And I will be the same person in a familiar setting

But everyone else would be light years ahead

Here I float where only dark and bright can be seen

Hoping that if I ever get back

Someone will extract from their average day

And help me get back to the median

Life or Death?

By Adina Bak


She lives her life embracing the distance

Surrounded, but alone

They disregard her existence

Will she leave this world unknown?


She struggles to pass the minutes, seconds

Doubting why she should be drowned by life's miseries

Why do they care when death’s call beckons?

No one cared when she drowned in her tears bitterly


The wind’s cold breeze kisses her face

She looks down at the people who never gave a smile

She opens her arms with a welcoming embrace

The fall takes a while


As she descends time stops

In between living and dead

She suddenly drops

How can we prevent such bloodshed?

Zichronah Livracha (Blessed Be Her Memory)

By Allison Gellerstein

My bubbe,

zichronah l’vracha, blessed be her memory,

had a strudel recipe that she took to the grave

My grandma, her daughter, attempted it

My father said Grandma could never really get it right

I never had a chance to taste it


I can imagine the smell of her strudel

pretend it was like the waft of my mother’s apple pie baking

but the closest I’ll come to understanding that smell

is the distinct odour

of the miles we logged in my father’s car  

(the one that always makes me nauseous)

the odour

replaced with relief of fresh air

when we would finally get to her nursing home


My bubbe, when I knew her, was always inside

My brother and I would eat from her hidden trove of packaged cookies

We would steal cherry and lemon Italian ices from the kitchen

flavors we can’t recreate


When I designed my family tree for a school project

I drew my bubbe at the root of it

All of our branches reaching back to her

And I glued cut out leaves onto it

(Since projects had to be “creative”)

leaves which would fall off everywhere like they do in autumn

Like my family members falling out after my bubbe was gone

Like apples tumble down branches in the fall


Apples would hum, anticipating

Dough would stretch out over entire countertops

And flour would coat the air

When the time came to make her strudel


But these are just my father’s memories

Stretched into a vague story,

whose details I’m just imagining.


But ingredients don't make a recipe

the details I picture, stretched into a vague story

Can't bring me back to my father's first bite of her confections

So all I can do is imagine


My memory fades as time goes on

Like memories blur into general impressions

Like the aftertaste of her strudel melts on my father’s taste buds


I remember the dissipating flavors of her nursing home

The walks up and down her hallway, both of our steps tentative, me on two little feet, she with a walker.

My father remembers my bubbe’s strudel

The production of it all, with the dough spread over the entire countertop

And the taste I’ll never know

Draw Between the Lines

By Brooke Kohl

Draw between the lines

Echoes in my ears

Flowers are red

Beats within my heart


Can you hear it?

A song silenced only by a final breath

The final breath of humanity


As long as we are around, we can never be free

We will always have one hand tied behind our backs

Our creativity stomped out

Our differences scorned


Draw between the lines

Echoes in my ears

Flowers are red

Beats within my heart


When will we sing a different song?

A song of creativity

A song of inclusion

A song of passion

A unique song for everyone


We could be free

Free, but not purposeless

If we were free to be unique



If we sang a different song

If our hearts beat with a different message


Draw wherever you want

If only it echoes in my ears

Flowers can be any color

If only it beats within my heart


But for now we have a hopeless song

Of indifference

Of sameness

Of exclusion


We must get rid of our terrible song

Before our final breaths

So that we can live the way we want to

Live creatively

Live differently

Live uniquely


Draw between the lines

Echoes in my ears

Flowers are red

Beats within my heart


If only echoes didn’t talk back

If heartbeats drummed a different tune

If songs sang of uniqueness

Of inclusion

Of passion

Of difference

And of drawing outside the lines

Truth For You

By: Adina Horowitz


I whisper it
Breath frosting
A distinct cloud of thought
Drifting along
To you.
For the stars
That surround us
For the night
That’s lies beneath us
For the love
That’s defines us
The truth flies
In that breath,
In that whisper.
The truth spirals along
For you,
For us.