SEA/SICK zine vol 01: change
my mom and aunt pick me up every time i’m visiting from my college dorm
by dylan
my mom and aunt pick me up every time i’m visiting from my college dorm
what was it like when you first visited home?
did home feel like everything you used to be
and are no longer?
did it resemble your own dying?
a slow entanglement, enigmatic with
gentle disintegration
like you are honey from the comb?
i look into your eyes and see no longer
myself rather liquid brown,
manuka oozing with who you wish i still was.
am i unrecognizable to you now?
maybe it’s because i am undone with my friends, toast and berries.
berries helps me collect the pieces of myself i hadn't thought i found
and when my delicacy decays, my friend toast rests my aching in their lap and strokes my hair clean.
you are not all i need anymore, but
i promise i’ve found decent company.
my train brings me back to midtown east
where i can almost see my company
waiting to hold me, kiss me at the door.
it comes to a sudden dullness.
the train’s sunlit windows covered now
in a fluorescent dim,
where I realize the light at the end of the tunnel
was all along, the tunnel itself.
I fall to my knees and repent.
car crash man!!!!!
by kiki dekel
grief town by valerie weisler
(edited version, the printed edition has an outdated version of this poem)
welcome to grief town, you are here because someone you love is not. can i show you around?
you miss her, you said? you should go see a movie. which memory of caryn is your favorite? it looks like the one of her laughing in the kitchen too late on a weekday is playing.
are you hungry? here in grief town, we have quite a few restaurants. grab lunch at our denial diner — it is perfect for that moment during a meal with a friend where they ask how you are and you grasp for examples that you are actually doing so great and everything is gonna be okay.
are you crying? this is good, this is actually really good. it reminds me that you have to see our community center. you might recognize it, it is every house that has felt like a home. each month, you’ll get access to a new room in it. we’ll show you the potluck parlour for now – it is made of casseroles. your friends can visit you here, but only if you let them in.
do you have the time? is it the time you lose caryn, or is it the time you realize how deep the loss runs? is it the time she visits ky in a dream? is it the time that you tell her that you have her kid’s back right before she goes, and she can’t talk anymore but gives you a wave and a strong nod?
are you looking for a new book? our library has many choices. you’re actually our featured author. i loved your self help book on how to talk to people about the reason you’re going to california, and that cookbook on how to enjoy a nice breakfast before saying goodbye to a home.
has your partner told you how to care for their plants yet? this is the grief garden. their fear foxglove needs you to find light, and their hope hibiscus needs four drops of let’s just give it a shot each day. and remember, their plants can only grow if you care for yours, too.
your feet hurt? that’s our cement, it’s made with a mixture of anger and awe. it will always be the ground you walk on. you will keep getting more furious that they have to live without their mom and more awestruck that they still do. miles and miles away, you will let yourself feel anger and awe for yourself, too.
you want to go home? welcome.
my alewives by katie stollmack
the pain of change as an autistic person
by saskia müller
Change is as constant as the ebb and flow
But for the autistic, it can be a painful blow
A shift in routine, an alteration of plan
Can make the world feel like quicksand.
The familiar safety of a routine known
Is overturned, leaving us stranded and alone
The pain of change is written in our mind
As the comfortable is replaced and hard to find.
The unpredictable is a terrifying thought
A new landscape that must now be sought
The world is a jumble of colours and sound
With emotions swirling that we can't propound.
The pain of change is felt within our soul
As we search for the comfort of the control
Our peace of mind is an unattainable goal
As we struggle to fit into the world as a whole.
The challenges of change are part of our lot
But our strength is in the resilience we have got
We grow stronger in the face of this test
And weather the storm, no matter how far the quest.
So though change may be hard, we'll endure
And create a new life that is smooth and pure
A life of wonder, adventure, and surprise
That will reshape our world and open our eyes.
cycles by emma foley
burn by jes dee
Armor built of button up
and cozy cable knit.
Hair helplessly hung;
a curly crown of thorns
caressing your cheeks
in reverence of
the man you're becoming.
Born of bitter lips
and sharp tongues,
How could you bloom
when they said
You would never even blossom?
Better to stay in a state;
perpetual germination or
professional rumination?
Yet.
Look at you, Hephaestus.
A phoenix from the ashes
You're burning bright, meteorite.
Let them feel your calefaction
Let the embers singe their skin,
Leaving the faire maiden behind,
Becoming the dragon within.
new waters
by anna mayer
rotten egg (edited)
rotten egg (original)
by levi mcmillan
Come on you slow poke!
the cold wind slaps his face and I
see his bright red cheeks glisten
raw like rare steak. Come on
try and catch me! he says
louder this time
The snow wraps my
feet (are they
feet? more like
anvils)
that try to move
faster now but it’s
no use
Wait up! I say Wait
for me but I can no
longer see those fiery
cheeks nor
his mildewed
hat (I still smell it
now — it
smelled like
a grave)
with the yarn at
its top that burst
forth like split
ends Wait
up! I am
shouting this
time but no-
thing Hey
Wait
up! the snow
kills my voice’s
echoes but I push
on Come on
Please Wait
up! My throat
raw like those
cheeks Wait for
me! but the snow piles
on and on and
my feet freeze and
my blood and
my bones turn
to ice and
it hurts and
as the sun dips its
body
in the trees
(then below—)
I begin to wonder
if the snow
swallowed him
(whole—)
Come on you slow poke
the cold
wind slaps his face and I
see his bright
red cheeks glisten
raw like rare
steak come on try
and catch me he says
louder this time
The snow wraps my
feet (are they
feet? more like
anvils)
that try to move
faster
now but it’s no use
Wait up I say Wait
for me but I can no longer
see those fiery
cheeks nor
his mildewed
hat (I still smell it
now— it
smelled like
a grave)
with the yarn ball at its
top that burst
forth like split
ends Wait
up! I am shouting
this time but no-
thing. Hey! Wait
up! the snow
absorbs my voice’s
echoes but I push
on Come on!
Please! Wait
up! My throat
raw like those
cheeks Wait for
me! but the snow piles
on and my feet freeze in place
my bones turn
to ice (and it
hurts)
and the sun dips its
body in the trees, then
below—I begin to wonder if the snow
swallowed him
whole
(trans)formation by levi mcmillan
The overgrown dawn seeps through the placid sky like bloodstained milk. I wait until the milk is gone and squint at the horizon, pink as my shirt
(the shirt wasn’t always like this; I once put it in the wash with my mother’s red duvet; the red tinged my innocent shirt like a child’s first utterance of a dirty word that brings tears to his mother’s eyes; embraces his tongue and makes memories foggy; thickens his plica vocalis and fills his throat with frogs and paints his face with painful sores that make him dream for the homecoming of life before menarche.
​
My shirt’s menarche came when I pulled it out of the wash for the first time; the moment I realized I could never wear that white again; and the lens of my eye was stained with the color of Mom’s duvet; my tears helped to wash it out but I still saw that color in my mind; it stayed there, embedded in the recesses of my brain with haughty permanence, like stretch marks on skin.
My menarche came when I was eleven; the tears I cried — and there were lots of them, buckets, glazing my rosy cheeks and staying there, ornery things, gripping my flesh as death clings to life — they were pink that day; pink as the dawn I now see with my aged eyes (a boy’s menarche is not a celebration).
​
Men! what beautiful things; what delicate things;
​
What enviable things).
I look at the sky. The sun, now fully awake and shining proudly, searing my bright blue eyes, guards the angel-white clouds, ensuring they avoid that Tanzanite ceiling.