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Issue 1 Poetry

barreling of a certain kind

“My mother told me once that your first love is something you never truly get over. Your love for a person collides with your resentment towards them, catalyzing those feelings into a benumbed state of being that renders you helpless. This poem depicts the state of consternation that happens when you don’t know the difference between what’s right and what’s wrong in a relationship.”

CONTENT WARNING: This piece contains imagery of sexual assault.

barreling of a certain kind

You walk into a room and the lights go out. 

You walk into a room and you’re naked,

the whirring fan shaking almost as hard as you are, 

you’re on the kitchen floor with your knees bent against the tiles in prayer, 

you don’t realize you’re not paying attention to the right thing

until he says something out loud, 

but you missed it. 

The man in front of you has his hands on you and you 

want them there, you really do, but something inside recoils, and you’re back to the
beginning, when he hit you so hard your ears rang, and you liked it, didn’t you? 

You told him you did. 

Your skin bruises 

to the tune of his heartthrob palm. 

You kiss him and 

another bell is struck. 

He pulls your hair and bites your lip and calls you baby. 

He takes a drink from your neck. 

The fan is still spinning and 

you are too, 

shards of chipped paint scraping against your shoulder blades, 

the stitches in your fingers are splintering, but 

you’ve already bled out, so what have you got to lose?

You danced on that kitchen floor, with him, with those hands on your hips. 

It was a movie moment, or it should 

have been, but the credits were already rolling.

And you tried dancing, you really 

did, but you were 

bored, and you 

can’t do much of anything when you’re bored. 

That’s why you skip the credits at the end.

You’re outside now. It’s dark. It’s hot. 

Tiny fangs when you bare your teeth, 

blades of grass slicing the back of your neck, 

moonlight shadowing the edges of your body, so much so 

you can’t tell where it begins and ends. 

It’s a voluntary surrender. 

He says you’re safe in his hands, but 

those are the same hands that wrap around your neck, 

fingertips pressing into the dips of your throat and 

everything grows tighter.

You’re all wound up. 

The serpent slithered between your fists, and you 

obey the mouth that bites you.

It’s raining, now. 

The sky has become undone and so have you, 

you’re still lying in the grass next to the boy who 

brushes your hair from your face, and 

all you know is vertigo.

Phoebe Nerem is a junior at DePaul University with an Art, Media, and Design major. She has been writing as a hobby ever since she can remember, including short stories and poems in a variety of genres. With the help of the Writers Guild, she is able to improve her work with thorough and thoughtful feedback.