black lives matter protests for equity in the united states

rioters, violence in the streets, people terrified for their lives

we want peace, we want justice, we want equality. we receive:

violence, disgust and rage from those who refuse to understand

we kneel with our hands raised, masks on, voices loud.

you look at us and sneer, spittle flying and handcuffs ready

you arrest us for our opinion, the truth that we speak

you look at the seven percent of violence and riots instead

of the ninety-three percent of the peaceful protesting.

election day. there is no landslide, but there are absentees.

you are in the streets, we are terrified for our lives, and you,

you are angry that you will no longer have that power.

when we watch you repeat our history, we sit in silence, in awe.

when you are protesting to stop the counting of ballots,

we say that it hurts when no one wants to listen to you, right?

when you storm buildings without masks and full of rage,

we say that this looks familiar, but there are no rubber bullets.

when you scream at the top of your lungs to be heard,

we say that we did the same thing, but we were suffocated instead.

no matter how the election turns out, this is our country,

but you are ready to fight your fellow countrymen, aren't you?

no matter what happens in the future, we are all american.

when you threaten to take our rights away, we are beneath you.

no matter what we do to show you the double-standard,

you are blind to the truth, blind to your hypocrisy, to your privilege.

no matter if you walk in the footsteps of those before you,

remember that we protested to be heard. you answered with violence.

no matter your skin color, we are supposed to love you.

but if you happen to be white, we will love you more.

there are brand marks seared beneath my eyelids, and they spell out: “tragedy, a travesty. a real tempest, in and of herself.” and i would tell you i wished i hadn’t had the liquor before the vows, but there’s no use in thumbing secrets onto empty altars, is there? what are dewdrops to the tainted? and adonis to the thorns? so fault me for this and nothing more: you whisper of rain clouds. i speak of storms.

this is the collision course. the orbit of the milky way. this is the red string, tied around the tan lines left from the diamond band on your index finger, pulling a ship to harbor.

so the next time you think of us: look at the sky. spill tears over the inevitability of me. our catastrophe made to be. when you come to learn that this is what’s etched in the stars, just know that i’m pleased. and sincerely, in due time, i hope you learn to set yourself free.

& she was esoteric metaphysical {mine}

cicadas: her eyes, they chirp when the sun hits them just so

ringworms: her intestines, they twist through witching hour, ashen, afraid

arachnids: her demeanor, archane as her spindly legs ensnare you

& i knew she was danger deadly {alluring}

red: for the blood against her lips, against her abdomen

blue: for the spotlight gaze, frozen glaciers, trapped in fatal waltz till the end of time

yellow: for northern stars that weep as she slays ursa major single handedly

primarily: i cry as her ichor stains my palms

secondarily: i smile, as her legacy etches itself into my enamel

tertiarily: i serenade, the stars sit spellbound, sublime, & i know she's listening

drifting in time.

will i find your worries between ursa major and her daughter? or are your devils buried beneath limelight quasars, letting nostopathy clog your pores, your stars, your scars?

a portrait, a painting, a mirror:

asteria, my aubade is for you, your prophecies are mine

the villanelles, artisan, aged, sleep on silk against casseopeia’s breastbone

cassette tapes: soundtracks of tourniquets, playlists that you cauterize beneath

the stab wounds that starlight inflicts,

major and minor, may your anguish whistle to the meteors

and incinerate against your luminescent physique

cartilage, visceral, wrapped in infinity’s inky cloak /

interstellar corpses stranded in a comet copse

rest your head as the universe picks at your scalp,

etching her sinister truths into your skin and beyond /

asteria, hold your necromantic repertoire close

or fade against the nebulae, the stars overtaking you at last.

The stars came before you, but they aren’t elitists. What’s etched in them is for the people: rich or poor, sunrise chasers or marathon dreamers.

The stars are not a private enterprise.

Someone long ago wrote prose with stardust as their ink, never once lifting their pen off the night time canvas. Space and time have shifted their format, the way that ink fades and paper yellows on the edges. But you can still read the sky, and surely you should.

We were taught to be weary of what sparkled, to proceed with caution into lights that could blind. I say we throw caution out the window and let her land among the stars, becoming the sprinkles of brilliance she so deeply feared last year. What lives in the sky touches all of our souls. What’s etched in the stars is that we all find a home.

when i first set foot into the realms of write the world, i was a naive simpleton and moreover, a shitty writer. i was not aware of the latter until i started to read there. over the time, i started to improve (or atleast i think so), and i literally owe everything to the folks there. yesterday, i reached one hundred followers, and unfortunately, i won’t be able to thank all of my followers who have, atleast at one point, believed in me, since i’m no longer publishing my work there. however, i’m forever grateful to them. but i won’t let that come in the way of this teary-eyed thank you. this is an appreciation post for all those i love, and all those who have loved me back (in no particular order). ok then, let’s begin kids.

-outoftheblue aka @phantastical aka anoushka

of course, who would i think of first? fellow rebel, fellow indian, and a friend. the very first person i talked to when i arrived at wtw, and the very first one who helped me get through the initial bumps. and oh my god her poetry’s so good you’ll want to kill yourself. she’s also a ‘civics in action fellow 2020’ (congrats!), so y’all can learn a bit from her. i can very well imagine anger literally flowing in her veins, and she walking away after she spat injustice in her face. if there’s one person who has inspired me as a person, it is definitely, without a doubt, her. a queen in perfect measures. thank you anoushka, for always being there <3

-sunny aka @sunnyv

ah yes, super-friendly welcpming face, and universal godmother to all wtwers. she’s also part of this cute cult called sestina morya, and i’m astonished at how close people can become over the internet without even ever seeing them in person. i feel like the whole of our community is an example of that, and in my opinion, if there’s one person who has worked more than anyone else to bring us together, it’s sunny. from writng long-ass paras on birthdays to wielding swords to protect (all) minorities, she’s your girl. also, her poetry makes you feel entire vibes (i’m still not over that mediterranean piece ajasskskkssk) , so might wanna check her out. thank you sunny <3

-@saudade

remember that sweet kid in primary school who was always running to stop a fight between two people? yup that’s mia’s whole thing. super sweet and super fun, and also the human form of pam beesly from the office. and fyi, i’ve never seen a thirteen year old write as good as her. never. her writing’s pure genius and the metaphors are even better. go check her out!

-@elliem

i haven’t really been as familiar with her, but that’s no reason not to love her work! her writing’s plain gorgeous, and her new piece (there’s a child under your skin) goes straight to my monthly highlights! also happy seventeenth birthday once again! and thank you for all your support :) <3

-@darknight

sid sid sid you super friendly angel with a gorgeous singing voice. once again, one of the very first people i met on the platform, and a friend i do not regret making. their prose is devastatingly good, though they don’t write as much poetry. nevertheless, they’re amazing. go check them out! <3

-@Samina

i haven’t been able to catch up on samina’s writing, so the only thing i can tell you with any certainty is that she’s a wonderful person. she helped me a lot, too, and i’m eternally thankful to her.

-@rainandsonder

rainandsonder is a person i was not familiar with for a long time after i came on the site. and i still regret it. everything rainandsonder writes is automatically gold. they are perhaps one of the most consistent writers i know, who never fail to deliver, and one for whom i have immense respect. the prose they write has a certain matureness that isn’t easy to find. but well, a lot of people on here aren’t easy to find, so.

-@pravartika

another fellow indian/fellow rebel who i’m not that familiar with, but once again, the striking features in her poems, and the alliteration she uses better than anyone i know makes her work a delight to go through. the fact that she is also an appreciator of true art (vivaldi>>>) makes it even better. she’s also a ‘civics in action fellow 2020’, which comes as absolutely no surprise. she also signs all her comments as ‘love and light, p’ which i absolutely adore. much love :)

-@inanutshell

ok first things first, i would love to fangirl with you becuase i get those great vibes from you :p now, coming to important things, inanutshell is a person who i always thought of as an older sibling? they have appreciated my work since i began to write and i can't be more thankful. they also write delicious poetry (a split sense of self had me crying) and stunning prose. thank you inanutshell! :)

-@dmoral

ah yes, wtw’s resident queen, our very own dmoral. a few weeks back she looked at my work and gave me a follow, and i lost my shit. and yes her poetry poetry poetry (so good you have to repeat it thrice)- the way she weaves in metaphors is physically impossible for me to do. the way she writes about life in it’s rawest, purest form (i hope you understand that i’m talking about that piece you wrote about not being poor, and yet not being rich-i’m so sorry i don’t remember the title) is unbelievable. her words catch you off-guard and then smack you right in the face. i’m just so thankful to you for taking interest in the work of a mortal like me.

-@purplepanache

how can i end an appreciation without mentioning the very first idol, the very first role model i made on wtw? i remember seeing one of purplepanache’s pieces in the monthly highlight (rip, amen) the very first week i joined, and i casually opened it. it was that very moment that i decided that holy shit that is the only thing i want to achieve as a writer. any words i use are less to describe her-her aura. i saw that frida kahlo pfp and i was in love with everything in that little corner of the internet. i was, in simple terms, obsessed with her writing, and i’m not exaggerating. i literally had a tab to her profile open on my device at all times. and naturally, she was a star to me. and i was astonished when i talked to her. she was super-friendly when i approached her, and i cannot describe how privileged i think myself to have been able to talk to her. i think of her as someone otherworldly. mortals don’t write that good. she’s a goddess, and a badass one. in weirdo’s words ‘they could slit my throat and i would still be happy because who wouldn’t want to be killed by a fucking legend?’ she’s everything i have ever wanted to become and more. she introduced me to frida kahlo and the word ‘stoic’, and the way she writes about love is inimitable it is spectacular. if i ever become one percent of what she is, i would remove that question mark after the word poet on my profile. yes she’s that good. none of this is an exaggeration. she is the single best writer on the site. period. if we ever have an internet competition where a single writer from each writing website goes to compete, I have zero doubt that purplepanache will be our official entry and that she. will. win.

and i know that purple’s offline for a bit, but if you ever see this, holy crap- purplepanache, i love everything about you so much.

now, if i missed someone, i would be more than happy to add you (just comment below), because every single person who has ever laid their eyes on my work and thought ‘i like that’ is responsible for this feat. i’m thankful to all of you. also, i hope that i got the pronouns right, if i didn’t, i’m extremely sorry, and you can comment that below too, or even message me, if you’re not comfortable doing it publicly. once again, thank you.

i know there’s not much to a box of used crayons

when labor day gives them away,

but do you remember the oiled pigment

staining your fingernails, staining your shoes

when they ground beneath the carpet and the soles?

do you remember your smile, your squint, your childish

determination and pride? you scribbled the world at

dusk and i asked why we still watch sunsets if

we know how they end.

and did you hear the music threading through

lawn mowers and storms last night, did you dance with me?

i should’ve guessed that the stars preferred

the sun to the moon (like calls to like), but maybe

they needed a silent love. still, your heart

beats like cicadas’ wings and i thought it would

keep me awake forever (and i thought for once

that would be alright).

and we never did get to play chess

but i’ve still got you in check;

it’s your move.

if we move to vermont

i wonder if some other girl might choose my bedroom because it's

blue

blue the color of the ocean.

might as well dye the carpet if it means the house won't sell, and you know

my blue hair didn't fix me.

girls here ignored it anyway--they don't wear their collars up.

they don't dress in darks but they gob on mascara and pull their buns so tight

you don't have to wonder where open mindedness went.

it's in there cinching somewhere.

their hair is blond and brown and red and light, even though it's not sometimes

and belonging is a construct but they've got it constructed as an add on to their homes.

but if i move to vermont, i'll have to box up the black shirts and the pink in the same box

i'll have to use the dye or leave it for some other girl who wants to drown in

blue

blue the color of the ocean

blue the color we paint the chesapeake bay over

brown the color we see the chesapeake bay as

they'll never see me get into college,

raise my longest finger at graduation and i'll splatter my cap and gown with

blue

i'll never ever be changed

i'll never ever be kissed

i'll never ever belong in one place

and if i move to vermont with my faded blue hair i wonder if it'll be easy to forget

the way me and him talked about picking flowers on the water

the way he said my flower was a daisy

if i move to vermont i'll bring him a bouquet on the way out of state,

dye them

blue

(blue the color of the ocean)

dye the water

blue

(blue the color of the ocean)

and if i move to vermont maybe it'll be a second chance to be all alone again.

sometimes i stay in the darkest corners of the room,

between the sliver of space where my two shadows meet.

here, they blend into a singularity, a fusion of my competing

superlatives. this is where the light does not reach me,

where it cannot expose me for my incongruences. in this

i am but two sides of the same coin — you flip me to find

my tail ambiguous in value, my head as blank as cold static.

but conforming is what i do best, and i contort my body to fit

into the littlest corners, fleeing to my refuge with abandoned

rays nipping at my heels. luminous laughter trails to my ears,

taunting me relentlessly as i play this inane game of coin flip

over and over, each time desperate for a different outcome.

my shadows place their bets as to when i’ll brave the light but

odds are, this seclusion will claim me before the coin lands.

The silence is unbearably loud.

The spotlights refocus back onto the stage, and it lights the entire hall bright gold. Someone coughs once, and it is jarring and unwanted. The judges click their pens open for the final time. A bright black Steinway Piano gleams in the center, polished to the point of salivation.

A young man, suit black and dress shoes blacker, walks out, posture straight and proud. His footsteps echo on the wooden floor, and he bows once before adjusting the height of the piano bench. He sits.

Linden’s hands are sweaty. He rubs them on his pant leg, but the nervousness doesn’t ease. He bounces his leg silently, once, twice. His heart beats loud enough to be one of those really expensive metronomes they sell at Penders. He’s wearing his nicest clothes, he’s taken a different shift at Starbucks, and he’s styled his hair into a better bun. He’s ready, or at least, he should be.

Onstage, his younger brother starts playing.

His fingers unconsciously flex, whitening as his brother goes over that practiced crescendo. Linden remembers that back then, it’d be minutes before his turn to go up, and he’d sit in the hallway because the waiting room was too stifling, playing his concerto on his thigh and making his sheet music crinkle at the harsh indentations; he’d always study his sheet music before a concert, not because he was unprepared but because he didn’t feel prepared enough.

Linden wonders if his brother does the same. Idris looks just like his father always does before going off on another business trip, skin light and bright against the glare of the sun, suit-dry cleaned and shimmering. It was a hand-me-down of course, but Linden had always thought Idris looked better in the suit than he ever did.

It’s only natural, after all.

Next is a series of arpeggios. Linden winces a little when the crescendo doesn’t go quite as planned, and he knows his little brother will spend hours poring over it later, not in front of a piano but in the deep crevasses of his mind.

Part of Linden wishes he had the twins with him. They were always a welcome presence at events like this, even though they always made way too much noise with the flipping chair covers.

Oh well, it’s alright. Linden shifts restlessly in the seat as the final recapitulation starts, almost the same as the theme. He tries; he tries to feel the music without imagining he was in his brother’s place, the stagelights pricking his arms, the music bringing him to a euphoric high.

Idris sways with the music, back leaning over without hunching. His eyes are blown open, and his fingertips bounce almost painfully off every note. Linden doesn’t know what he’s playing for, what his muse is or what he’s channeling into every note, but he knows his chest hurts just from listening to him. He tries not to think about the possibilities or “what could’ve him”. He focuses on the growing tightness around his chest, surely provoked by the ringing music.

Linden’s fingers start hurting without reason. He blows some hot air on them and presses them to his cheeks. Something squeezes behind his ribcage. The music rises and then—

Idris’s face screws into a tight knot, and he tickles the last arpeggio, only to practically slam his fingers back into the instrument in a resounding final note.

Nobody breathes for the second after that.

Linden stands up first—he always does—and he’s completely unaware of the growing wetness around his eyes. It only takes a split second for several other audience members to stand up as well.

Linden’s palms hurt from clapping, and his little brother extracts himself shakily from the piano bench, pressing himself into a low bow. There’s a written rule against cheering aloud, but he almost wants to at that moment.

Idris walks off the stage. Linden excuses himself and exits the auditorium.

____

“You always cry at these performances,” Idris remarks teasingly. Linden glares at him, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

“Shut up and check the paper,” he snaps not unkindly. His younger brother rolls his eyes and flounces away to the newly posted preliminary results. Unrest hangs in the air around the crowd of well dressed participants and their guardians, even though Linden would bet his life’s savings that he already knew the results.

Sure enough, Idris cones back only minutes later, after having shoved his way through his competitors. On his face is a small but still incredibly self-satisfied smile.

“Made it,” Idris says, practically beaming. Linden’s lips break into a wide grin, and he reaches forward, playfully ruffling his brother’s hair. The boy breaks off with a screech, but there’s a gleam in his eye that alludes to something more.

“Good job,” Linden says warmly. He loops his arm around Idris’s shoulders, intentionally not creasing the suit, and they start making their way towards the exit, only to be stopped by a stern-faced woman.

“Ms. Feng!” Idris stumbles, shoving Linden’s arm off at the same time. Ms. Feng raises an eyebrow, coughing twice into her palm.

“You did well,” she says, that ever-appraising note evident in her voice. She scans over Idris’s form carefully, and he discreetly squirms under her gaze. “We’ll go over your mistakes next lesson.”

“Yes ma’am,” Idris nearly squeaks. Linden would laugh if he wasn’t similarly frozen. Ms. Feng’s eyes seem to track their way over to his frame.

“He is your brother,” she says to Linden, voice unreadable. Linden averts his eyes. With a final glance, Ms. Fend pads away, high heels clopping against the ground. Idris and Linden release a breath at the same time.

“I’ll make your favorite dinner,” Linden promises. Idris colors slightly.

“I’m not a kid!” He exclaims indigantly, all while almost salivating. Linden smiles and claps him on the back.

They walk home.

____

The next day, Linden fails history.

“Mr. Gbeho, like I said, there really isn’t any need for me to be-” he says exasperatedly, moments away from slamming his hands on the desk. The teacher simply hums and narrows his eyes at Linden.

“Linden, you’ve been on the cusp of failing for weeks,” he says starkly. “If something isn’t done now, then when will you improve?”

Linden doesn’t respond, clenching his fists at his sides. Mr. Gbeho takes that as a dull acceptance and waves him towards the back of the classroom. “Stay in the back. You can meet your tutor now.”

Linden’s eyes widen, and this time, he really does put his hands on the desk. “Mr. Gbeho! I-”

“It’s only for a few minutes,” the man says dismissively, promptly turning back towards his monitor as if ending the conversation. Linden seethes, stomping away and grabbing his phone from his pocket. He speed-dials the second contact listed, playing an F major scale on the side of his phonecase.

“Where are you?” Is the first thing that comes out of the phone, and Linden rolls his eyes.

“Respect your elders, brat,” he barks. “Where’s Idris?”

“Bathroom,” his younger sister replies vaguely, “What is it? Have you been arrested?”

“Why the hell would I-” Mr. Gbeho shoots Linden a dirty look, and he coughs, “Anyways, you guys have to go on without me. Something’s holding me up,”

“What is it?” Another voice shoves in, more boyish, and Linden sighs at the antics of the younger twins.

“Just... Stuff,” he says vaguely. Suddenly, the sharp sound of rustling blares through the phone.

“You’re still at the upper campus?” Finally, Idris’s reasonable voice filters through the mic. “We’ll meet you there then.”

“Wait I-” The call cuts off, and Linden hurriedly pulls up their group chat to type a rather angry message in. He heaves a deep sigh once it sends, leaning heavily against the wall as he fishes his earphones from his pocket.

Linden curses Mr. Gbeho in his head. Today was supposed to be a good day with his siblings. He didn’t have work, and none of them had any extracurriculars to worry about.

The music washes over him in waves, and he lets out a contented noise, sinking deeply into the instrumental part.

_____

The guy comes in a rush, and it’s only to Linden’s apparent misfortune that he can hear Mr. Gbeho spout praises for him over the sound of his music. Frustrated, he turns the volume up all while searching his peripheral for his siblings. When the guy—probably some studious freak, just like Idris—finally turns to look at Linden, he pretends like he doesn’t notice.

Linden won’t lie, the guy has one of the best resting b. faces he’s ever seen. He’d even be jealous if he hadn’t exhausted that tank already. The guy stalks towards him, and at this point, Linden is just straight up ignoring him. Maybe the Bon Bon Girls 303 blasting in his ears can save him.

It doesn’t. The prick taps on his shoulder, and Linden is forced to part from his precious earbuds. He scowls at the boy but receives nothing but that same look from him. It reminds him unnervingly of Idris honestly.

“You’re Linden, right?” The guy asks, voice pitching annoyingly at a low tenor. His vocal range is a little like Linden’s, but he probably hasn’t used it for anything “frivolous” like singing. Linden slides a little further from the close proximity, still refusing to make eye contact.

“Yeah, and yo-”

Something screeches down the hallway, and Linden whips his head around. Lo and behold, his siblings are there, scrambling down the hallways like the clear lowerclassmen they are. He sees the guy raise an eyebrow.

Suddenly, Lila, the older twin, trips over Idris, who was too busy marvelling over the upper campus’s hallways. Evander, who was walking far too close to Lila, falls with her.

They collapse in a cluttered heap. The boy beside him lets out a concerned sound.

Linden drags a hand over his face and curses.

#poplon