“Scarred” by Hannah Bouchard / “Chomps” by Kaitlyn Valenti
“Chomps”
Kaitlyn Valenti

“Scarred”
Hannah Bouchard
Learning to love you
Was like burning a bruised patch
Into my pale skin
Learning to love you
Was like burning a bruised patch
Into my pale skin
I am a water sign
As tranquil as that sounds
My thoughts never seem to align
Disconnected from grounds, my mind knows no bounds
I write, draw, read, and bake
but that’s only a piece
because no matter what I make
it’s always the process that brings me peace
I once grasped my identity
Now I’m just lost
Desperately seeking serenity
I wonder what that will cost
Far
So far from reality
It’s truly bizarre
how I’m patching my life with morality
I was once adamant
about what I was destined for
Now I’m stagnant
Wanting nothing more
Inure
to things I never thought could endure
but I continue to ensure
that these scenarios will only let me mature
I am whatever the universe makes of me
So much potential wasted
apathy
manipulated
Dear Einas,
As I settle into my chair to compose this heartfelt letter to you, my future self, a feeling of wonder washes over me as I contemplate the relentless march of time. I contemplate how time does not wait for a soul, how the mind does not comprehend the swiftness of these years until it is too late, and all I can do about it now is to sob into my pillows over the heartbreak of missing my innocence. These are the moments that I begin to reminisce about times I had wished to grow up faster, not knowing all I want right now is not only to stop getting older, but to be younger again.
I am now 16 years old, and a junior in high school. As soon as July 31st comes by, I will never be 16 again, exactly how I will never again be 2, in Syria, chasing my sister and her friends. I will never be 7, learning to ride a bike in the parking lot of one of the masjids I grew up in. I will never be 9, with a blue cast on my arm after breaking my hand rolling down my cousin’s backyard in plastic cars, while our mothers were inside making us dinner. My favorite color was blue because my moms favorite color was blue. I will never be 13 getting my nails done for the first time during my last ever year of middle school. I will never get those years back and that is a feeling that confuses me.
Time truly is a phenomenon that continues to captivate me, the impressive thing about the future is that we never know what is to come. Even with our endless hopes and expectations, anything can occur and alternate the path we are on. I have learned that through the vast array of experiences I have been put through. I would have never anticipated my house setting on fire, my parents splitting at a young age, my mother moving away to a different state and having no consistency in any aspect of my life with all the moving I have done, with all the people I have lived with, with all the schools I have moved to. After living through it, it all seems typical and is my one and only reality.
Engaging in a deep reflection always seems to engulf me in a whirlwind of emotions. I, for one, believe that everything is a blessing in disguise, and am forever grateful and thankful to the one and only Lord above me. I have been given a chance to grow through harsh times and learn valuable lessons, gaining wisdom. My experiences have collectively molded me into the person I stand before you as today and will continue to frame me into other versions of myself till my time is to come. Each moment seems almost dreamlike, a powerful testament to the ephemeral nature of time itself.
My English teacher says that at this age, the stress we feel for the future is ordinary, that we are young and are afraid of the new chapters that wait for us. However, the realization that not only has time sped by, but will continue to hurtle forward at an unwavering pace is what resonates most deeply within me. As I craft these words, a heightened awareness washes over me – these next years will zoom by in the blink of an eye. It’s a thought that carries a certain weight, an urge that makes me want to live each and every day with a clear sense of purpose, to truly savor every moment, and to never take for granted the blessings that surround me, because one day, I will wish to be 16 years old, and a junior in highschool again.
As I delve into contemplating the uncertainties of the future, a multitude of questions wash over me. The questions I ask myself about the pending future are my motive to keep going, and my motive to give up. The future remains veiled in uncertainty, but one truth remains undeniably clear: time is a relentless force that waits for no one, and the responsibility falls squarely upon my shoulders to make the most of every precious moment bestowed upon me. I often spend time wondering who I will become, where I will find myself, if I will pursue my dreams, passionately chase after my deepest desires, or leave an indelible mark upon the world,
I do not want to look back with a pang of regret, yearning for the opportunities I let slip through my fingers, the risks I never dared to take, and the chances to embrace life to its absolute fullest that I let go of. As I ponder the swift passage of time, a quote by the esteemed poet Henry van Dyke surfaces in my mind: “Time is too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who fear, too long for those who grieve, too short for those who rejoice, but for those who love, time is eternity.” These insightful words beautifully capture the very essence of the intricate relationship we share with time.
Amidst this kaleidoscope of human experiences, it is love that emerges as the most powerful anchor, a constant among the ceaseless tide of time. Love possesses the ability to transcend the boundaries of time itself, infusing every fleeting moment with a significance that stretches beyond the limitations of the clock. It imbues our lives with a profound sense of meaning, fortifies our spirits with unwavering hope and optimism, and serves as a constant reminder that even as time marches on relentlessly, the bonds of love endure, steadfast and unwavering. So, Einas, remember to love.
Love more than people. Love the clear certainty that you are alive. Though death and age are factors in life we cannot sway, having the ability to die means that you have the ability to live, and that is what we must do. As you delve into these words penned by your past counterpart, I hope that they resonate deeply within the core of your being. May you be filled with an abundance of gratitude for the countless moments that have woven the intricate tapestry of your existence, and may your heart brim with excitement for the captivating adventures that lie ahead on our path. Remember to seize every moment with unwavering purpose and a burning passion, and to cherish the love and memories that light the path before you. It is moments of love and connection that truly endure.
With boundless love and anticipation,
Yourself
The Christine Curley Memorial Award for Creative Writing has been established by Christine’s parents to be presented annually to the students who display interest and potential in creative writing.
During Christine’s high school years, she showed great promise as a poet, and the hope of her parents is that this award will encourage other students to pursue in their writing the spirit with Christine so beautifully demonstrated in her own.
A faculty committee has chosen
I am not a poet
But a woman albeit
The earth is my page
Aged by existence
But its blank- nothing
Is untouched but the trees
Seized to write
The way of the world
Hurled me into a whole
Hole of conformation
Molded my cognation to believe
And perceive that the difference
Is an inference between women and girls
Dream and women don’t
Live in fantasies but
Face reality through silent
Understanding manning the being
Seeing but never freeing
The light in my throat
Matches the words I never wrote
To my daughter’s mother
Another letter to explain
That I am not a woman
But a poet peeling a persimmon
To reveal the golden core
Adored by girls around the world
Dare to dream it seems
That if to be a woman is to give
Up the most beautiful something
Than I’d rather have nothing
But my pen and paper
Taper but I am unfazed
And raised by the notion
Of never being a poet for
I am a poette.
souls twirling in a dance
on chance- we met
our eyes the keys
unlocking the willow trees- perched
upon the hill- filled
a gap between us grows
apart from galaxies of light
gleaming citrine, mauve, azure- sure
shine upon skin- akin
flames burning blood
rushes through bodies not souls
in the stars- molten gold
hardens to keys
of maple
traveling far far away
to partake in a universal dance
on chance- upon continents
on opposite ends of the same string
interlinked.
Courageous Echo
In the face of silence,
courage makes its choice to speak.
Reflecting Worth
In the mirror’s truth,
our reflection of worth is our greatest art.
Clarity
Beneath the chaos,
the stillness of purpose finds its way.
I don’t like to blink, if I blink everything goes away.
she said ¨In the blink of an eye it’s gone..̈ What if that’s true,
In one blink
In one second
Everything is gone.
I tried to stop blinking, to keep the moment, to pause time.
I keep my eyes open. Prying them open with two hands, making them burn hot like fire, my tears unwillingly crawl down my face.
It’s not enough.
it’s never enough, I always blink and the moment is gone
her love is gone.
I reach and Claw at my eyes, wanting to grab what I once saw
I need to go back to the feeling, bring me back to the moments.
In one blink of an eye, I now see things differently.
it’s true, she was right it’s all gone in the blink of an eye.
That cold fall air, nipping at my skin, took me back to days of pumpkin pie steaming on the windowsill. I remember you’d take me out here and we’d just talk and talk, the smoke from your cigars covering your face in a fog of misplaced memory and shooing away the gnats that loved to swarm the porch light. You would tell me the stories of sitting out here with Mom and stories of her stories of her life before I took it away from her the day I was born. You’d always let me sit in moms old rocking chair. I always thought I was taking your comfy chair from you, until that night I stayed up too late and saw you out there, alone, smoke covering your face, wistfully staring at moms chair, hoping she might take a seat and talk to you one last time.
I couldn’t comprehend how you were feeling back then. But now, as I sit, alone, in this rocking chair that creaks every time I move, I can’t help but stare at the empty wooden chair that used to hold my father, so grand, taller than the clouds of smoke that cover the wrinkles I can’t seem to remember the shape of, and I remember the incredible man who taught me everything I know and now rots, rots in that backyard where we would play, rots under the sun we would pitch tents to hide from, rots under that grave marker that i crafted with my own bare hands, rots in my head as the memory of your booming voice fades into nothing.
So I smoke, now, dad, to shoo away the gnats and blanket my eyes so I don’t have to look at the chair that holds you no longer.
Willow swayed by gale
Towering above grasslands
Kissed by golden light
Blades unruffled and gleaming
Gazing at the lustrous sky
the water looks cold like ice the combustion from it
like straight out of a freezer and
i want to jump in but i cant and i want to dive in but i
i wont afraid that my fingers will crumble like snow if i do
so i
stay my feet dangling from the pier so close to the numb water
is what i want to say but all i could manage is
the water looks cold
like snow and its almost frozen over maybe we shouldnt jump in
maybe we shouldnt dive in
And my friend walks back to the opposite end of the pier
mumbling about my uncertainty why so indecisive?
why so uncertain mumbling through i even ask myself
why i am so uncertain why im so indecisive