Issue 03 Coming Soon!

Issue 02 Online Library

Here you can read the collection of Poetry and Short Stories from Issue 02

Indigo Sapphire Moon

She/Her

Sea of Silence

My steps are vivid when the absence of others is prominent. When I’ve brushed my
hair and put on my glasses, I watch myself sip my tea in the mirror and place it on
the table. I smile and remind myself I’m pretty.

Rain creates a soundtrack and I sit, my knees hugging my chest, on the windowsill.
I watch the magpies search for worms sunk deep in the soil and hear crows sing
their newest threat. I take another sip of my tea and feel the silence shrouding me.
However, I don’t fear it. It’s here to play.

But then, days like today, when the absence of others has championed its
longevity, I usher it away. If I could fill it with the laughter of my friends or a
conversation with a girlfriend, I’d reverse the grinding lack of aliveness.

By now, my tea is cold and I’m almost too stubborn to brew another. I glance out
the window again, observing the raindrops. To notice them feels significant. Yet,
this silence brought something else to stay. And I don’t much like its heaviness.

I look at my tea cup and rest my head against the wall. I stare at the ceiling and
notice the cracks. There’s more than I realised but the paintwork still looks
appealing. I sigh, pick up my journal and sketch the outline of the silver birch trees,
paying particular attention to the shadows.

A tear drop splashes onto the page, smudging my pencil line. I place a hand over
my chest as my cheeks become warm and wet. My eyes sting, my head aches but
this wordless affirmation, it renders release.

I take my thumb and place it over the stained teardrop, creating a grander smudge,
one that stretches along the page. I won’t abandon myself this day. I walk towards
my tea cup and brew a fresh one.

When silence lacks itself again, it’s still there, surviving beneath this layer of life.
But the heaviness lifts somewhat when joy and laughter blooms again and I
surrender to a moment that’s - full.

IG: @sapphiremoonstudiosx Web: www.sapphiremoonstudios.com

Mwelwa Chilekwa

She/Her

I am not your fetish

"Once you go black you don't go back"
"Oh I want to nibble on that piece of chocolate"
"You're so beautiful, for a black woman"
Negrophilia, it's called
The fetishisation of black people
Despite the fact
I've grown used to it
It's still racist
It's still treating me like an object
It's still dehumanising me
They offer to roleplay the slave and master
The only pretending they do
Is faking they’re only racist in the bedroom

I can feel the way they
Undress me with their eyes
Not even bothering to disguise it
Unfortunately, I'm used to being fetishised
What can I say?
I'm naturally curvy
I have big, dick sucking lips
The perfect birthing hips
But, no, we wouldn't make great babies so
Obviously, rejection comes
And then it's my fault that
They become obsessed
Staring becomes stalking
Not stopping till their satisfied
I try to report it, but who cares
It's just a harmless fetish, right?

I've lived with that side of
Being fetishised
All of my life
But then, coming out as bi
I see a whole new side of it
Because if you're not straight,
You're labelled as easy
And being bi just means
I can't make up my mind
That I'd welcome the chance to have more
Hands on my body because
Being queer means you're not clear when you say
No

They say, find the person that
Doesn't care about the colour of your skin
Or your sexuality
I say, find the person
Who understands they can
Never truly understand
The person who holds your hand despite
All the chaos and ogling and abuse
The person who knows you can fight for yourself
But chooses to fight alongside you
Who loves you for who you are
Platonically, romantically
Find them
And together
We can fight

IG: @missmwelwac

Liam Scanlon

He/Him

As a Gay Boy I Wanted to be a Writer

Dust strangled roads split the valley like knife wounds
The hot Chris>an heat weighing like a cross
Roads strangled and muddy, crooked fields choked in dust
I’m fat-throated like a bullfrog, my swollen tongue slurs my foreigner’s words
Me and my bent-up Picasso knees still walking

Oh well, I’ve prayed in that church before
It wooed me with its coolness,
but the stone dent my knees and breathed blue on the back of my neck
Shackled as I was to the future, to the Fear:
choosing a career like brands of milk
like a logo spotted in the car’s rearview

Is a howl a song?
Through my musky nights I piled words like plates all around me and begged the roomies
not to breathe
Captured words like butterflies, jeweled eyes glazing the back wall
Words like porcelain: praying for rain and only ever receiving
snowflakes of dust

But those words I swallowed were swords,
Briar prickling my insides
And now I choose my words like bullets
My steeldrum mouth full of flames:
tip it out and the fire meets the evening, gracefully
dancing into purple steam

At a certain point it becomes impossible to keep living with the sword down your throat
I’d rather be a haunted dress—a plastic bag—dancing in the sky
enchanting the stars

IG: @liamsca

Hongwei Bao

He/Him

How to Make Tea in Chinese New Year

It’s Chinese New Year.
You are at home with your parents.
Your boyfriend is in his home with his parents,
having to deal with interrogations about whether

he has a girlfriend and when he’ll get married.
But you, you’ve had enough of these
apologies, excuses, lies. You’d like to put a stop
to all the nonsense, the acting, once and for all.

Why not make your parents a nice cup of tea,
using their favourite blue and white porcelain pot
while they are comfortably seated
in front of the television watching

newlyweds in bright costumes hugging and kissing
each other, grandparents offering red packets
to grandchildren, eyes filled with happiness,
the kind your parents can’t have because of you.

Why not take out the best Miluochun leaves
handpicked from the green hills of the Yangtze River Delta?
Why not use the Nongfushanquan mineral water
flowing down from the glaciers of the Himalayas?

Sprinkle the fine leaves on the bottom of the pot
and shake gently. Let the fragrance fill every inch
of the room. Pour the boiling water, 85 degrees centigrade,
and let the hot steam kiss open the shy leaves.

Cover the lid and leave it brewing for exactly 90 seconds.
Then serve the orange-coloured liquid in jade-textured teacups.
Place the cups in delicate saucers and present them with both hands,
showing care, precision and respect.

While your parents are sitting back cozily sipping the tea,
wondering why their son has changed to a different person today,
tell them gently, calmly and slowly: Mum and Dad,
I’ve got a boyfriend.

IG: @PatrickBao123 X: @Patrickbao1

Fox Ferguson

(They/Them)

‘Harley street in Technicolour!’

It is warm in the 1961 Chrysler Imperial. Just purchased by your husband – all steel and chrome,
450 horsepower, AM radio. Ready to drive you into a new age.

You forgot about the radio – so now you take your white-gloved hand from the wheel (under the
glove your knuckles are white too) and push the radio button with only the slightest tremor in your
fingers.

Ha – of course it had to be this song! Come on and be my little good luck charm, Uh huh huh, you
sweet delight…

Elvis is still crooning when you pull up in Harley Street. The way you slam the door, that sweet
cream flank of the car, is barely noticeable.

It is sixpence for the hour. You have never used one of these parking meters before – only just
introduced, you know, a machine from the future!

You fumble for the coin. Ungloving one hand, you can feel the sweat between your fingers and the
shard of silver in your pocket. Come on and be my little good luck charm…

I should have –

You stop yourself. No point.

You drop the coin into the meter and smooth down the folds of your cocktail dress – polyester, you
know, the fabric of the future! You wonder if the gay floral pattern is too garish for the occasion. No
point in thinking about that now either – your appointment is in ten minutes.

The brick four- and five-storeys of Harley street loom over you as you walk towards the clinic. As
you arrive, you see the iron railings, the brief sweep of steps up to the black double door. Before
you know it, you are there at the bell. You press the large gold button and wait.
You are quite sure that the receptionist who answers the door introduced themselves, but now,
sitting in the waiting room, you cannot remember their face. You realise it is because you were
unable to meet their eye.

A smiling crisp-uniformed nurse offers you tea but your mouth is too dry to stammer out
acquiescence. Behind the reception desk, a transistor radio plays. It’s just a matter of time, Brook
Benton reminds you…

In the final moment before the brisk and large-gestured doctor comes to take you through to the
procedure room, you place one hand on your stomach, try and feel the life in your churning guts.

I’m sorry, you whisper in your mind, but the words sound hollow and too small.

Afterwards, walking back to your 1961 Chrysler Imperial, all steel and chrome, you realise that all
you can remember of the procedure is this: the sight of the doctor opening his toolbox, the
implements inside, all steel and tubes and sharpness, a box of horrors.

Driving home, you turn on the radio. Ella Fitzgerald holds you the whole way back.

You cried the long night through, Well, you can cry me a river, Cry me a river, I cried a river over
you…

IG: @the.thought.fox

Anna Malone

She/Her

Healing

Breathe life into me
Shake off the dust of many years
Oil my stiff, aching joints
Restore my heartbeat
Blow glitter into my face if you have to
To bring back the twinkle in my eye
Sew up my open wounds
And smooth over my old ones
Hold my hand
So that I may not walk this alone

IG: @anna_malone_costume

River Quinn Mayne

He/They

I am both abraham and isaac

bleating on his doorstep, self-sacrificial lamb
teeth rubies set in a broken jaw,
begging through the blood for the
love he had in his eyes, you know
that one time, that hint of something, and

he kicks you in the mouth
bare foot slick with spit and bleeding gums
what he excelled at was hurting you
but at least you can feel his touch before
you black out

IG: @rivm545 X: @rivermayne

Viktoria

She/They

September 2017.

White wine, sprite and cigarettes. You and I in the middle of the road,
music blasting. It’s 1:30 am. Dancing. You, teaching me how to waltz.
You lead, holding me so tight, swinging me around like it’s nothing. It’s
drizzling, the smell of rain in the air. You are the only person I want to
exist with me. After all the crying, all the bad, the fear. You took some of
that away. Now I can see clearly again. The doubts lifted from me. I can
love who I want and you’ll still be there with me. We just laughed.
Danced the pain away. We smoked your whole pack of cigarettes. It was
the first time I ever smoked; you showed me how to. You always taught
me things. Taught me to always be myself “You don’t want to be like
everyone else. I don’t want you to be. Don’t change. I love you.” I loved
you too, but more than you will ever know. I didn't care, I was just happy
to be there. I wanted to kiss you – you to kiss me. Forget about your
boyfriend, I can love you better than he ever will. You can teach me that
too. I cling to every word on your lips like it’s the last thing I will ever
hear you say. And then you left.

I’m left with the memory of the first girl I ever loved. I was just a kid; I
didn’t even know what that meant but I felt it. I still feel it when I think
of you.

But white wine, sprite and cigarettes will always remind me of you.

Note: this poem was formatted differently originally, the limitations of our website did not allow us to recreate it identically
The poem is formatted as intended on page 35 of CV&L Issue 02

IG: @lolamoonwalk

C. Grayson

(He/Him)

Faith

Most of my childhood was spent in church
every Sunday like clockwork,
teaching me in the ways of selflessness.
I believed taking on other people's pain
was a noble and loving thing to do
and I have done that my whole life.
I have immense guilt, I always felt sinful
for needing to put myself first sometimes,
for the way I love not being enough
to heal anyone, or save them.
It is not my responsibility to save others
but that’s not what you’re taught
surrounded by adults telling you hell awaits
anyone selfish, doubtful, or different.
We must protect those we love from harm
but I watched my father cause harm
to my mother, to my sister, their tears
marking my failure to be a good person.
I saw how he used guilt to divide us,
I saw my mother’s pain became my sister’s,
I saw my foundations crumble before me
as I stood a powerless, small child
and knew my soul was marked by it forever.
That was the end of my faith in my father
when I knew there was nothing to look up to
in him or in my mothers absence too.
I needed something to believe in, the world
was too confusing, too scary, too aggressive
and unkind, so I turned to the only person I
had. The only role model still there.
She left religion, I always followed her.
but I just replaced one god with another
and tried so hard to be a good disciple
not knowing that the truth was
I never could earn the love promised.

The final disappointment of true isolation
when my sister turned away from me at last
hit my chest so much harder than any other.
At one point or another, they’ve all left,
splintered off in their own directions
and it was hard not to latch on to someone
because I so desperately wanted to be safe
and I was taught safety was being amenable.
I learned to become what was needed of me,
to stop their yelling I bit my tongue,
to stop their rejection I said yes to them all,
to stop their coldness I learned how to please
and it crushed me to be abandoned anyway.
I couldn’t coax out the consistency I needed
from my family, no matter how hard I tried
to be funny, charming, loving, kind, good.
I am in pain because I believed so deeply
I could love people into seeing who I am
and if they finally deemed me good enough
I would get back the love I was begging for
but all the gods I believed in have left me.
I am trying to lead myself with no example,
trying to love myself with my own heart.
I am reading from my own book of life
and trying so hard to trust what I have learnt.
It’s hard but I’m starting to admit out loud
it was easier to see myself as the problem
then to accept how badly I’d been let down.
I see the soft, sad child desperate for love
and I will not abandon him. I will love him.

c. grayson

IG: @marstawayne

K.C. Finn

He/Him

ERADICATION

WOULD WE LAY TO GROUND WHAT WE LOVE, NAMELESS?
NOMAD, PAUPER, RICH OR FAMOUS,
ALL ARE PEOPLE, SET FOR GRAVES
AS VILLAINS, HEROES, MASTERS, SLAVES.
SO WHERE’S THE HARM IN WASHING OVER
THAT WHICH FRACTURES OUR COMPOSURE?
THOSE DIVIDES AND CULTURE CLASHES,
BORDERS, BINARIES AND CREEDS ALL COME
TO ASHES IN THE GRAVEYARD, FEEDING WEEDS.
BETTER THEN, ERADICATE THOSE LABELS NOW,
MAKE PEACE, LESS THREAT IF WE ERASE
CONSTRUCTIONS TIL WE’RE ALL THE SAME SOMEHOW.

AND YET.

EQUALITY’S A CHEATER’S GAME IF ONE AND ALL
START OUT THE SAME:
NO BRIDGE TO BUILD, NO STREAM TO CROSS.
WITHOUT THE LESSON, LEARNING’S LOST.
IN EVERY OPPOSITION’S CLASH
THERE’S SPACE TO COMPARE AND CONTRAST.
AND THAT WILL SOMETIMES CAUSE A SMASH
WHEN WE REJECT, CORRECT OR BASH.
BUT IF WE HOLD THOSE INSTINCTS BACK,
ACCEPT IDEAS WITHOUT ATTACK,
HOLD SPACE AGAINST THE TONGUES DERISIVE,
THEN DIFFERENCE NEED NOT BE DIVISIVE.

FOR SOME, THAT JOURNEY’S FAR TOO LONG,
CLOSED MINDS ERRATIC TO THE ONSLAUGHT OF LABELS PROBLEMATIC.
FAR SIMPLER TO IGNORE THAN TO SUCCUMB.
LIVES LIVED IN AUTOMATIC FALSEHOODS,
“PROTESTS NEVER DO YOU GOOD”.
LYING LEADERS LOVE SUCH MINDS
AND WRAP THEM TIGHT IN SAFE CONFINES.
THEY CALL FOR PEACE AND HARMONY’S SAKE
WITH CANS OF WHITEWASH IN THEIR WAKE.
ERADICATORS LOVE TO PREACH.

SAY I, COME GATHER WHERE THEY TEACH.

COME DESECRATE THIS GRAVESITE NAMELESS,
FILLED WITH PIOUS, PRIM SELF-SAVIOURS.
BRING PERSONAS, TAGS AND LABELS.
COVER EVERY TOMB AND TABLET,
EVERY SLAB AND EVERY GABLE
TIL ITS BRIMMING TOE TO NAVEL
UP TO NAPE AND OVERHEAD.
EVERY COLOUR, EVERY TYPE,
EVERY BLEND AND EVERY BENT,
TELL ME THEN THIS CAUSE IS DEAD,
TELL ME TIL THOSE WORDS ARE SPENT.

ERADICATION, TEST YOUR MIGHT.
AGAINST THE FERVENT APPETITE
OF WE WHO CLAMOUR, RAZE AND CLATTER.
WE EXIST.
OUR LABELS MATTER.

IG: @mrbrakedown