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The Fight Begins Again

March 27th, 2023

Poem by Cailey Tarriane

Artwork by Caitlin Walton

I poured out my unseen bravery
Words to punch the gut of the stoned to
make them feel again
Marching on the soles of somebody else’s feet
Screaming to be measured with the straight line
of a ruler, placed on top of our heads
Measured equal in the camera of the seeing
Heard to the deaf, shaking the still
Erupting with cries for the right
to be separated from the lies disguised with white
It’s easier to look at, deceived the camera of the seeing
except ours.


But the shoes I wear, the eruption of my throat
This body isn’t mine to hold up, along with
the bravery that was all in the mind, accompanying
the corruption of the heart, with history-making skills
that I do not possess anymore.
Rightfully speaking
there will be no cleansing the lenses of the Deceived
nor will I bring out a ruler not to stab but

to compare and contrast,
and tell us that we are all worth the same.


I store my inventions away in a box beyond the
moon that existed in my fantasy:
the past courage, the ruler
a cloth to polish lenses of the glasses that can’t see clearly

Instead of these, I posses desire to live, no-
not desire but entitlement

Belief of things that are not mine to be mine
But the soles of my feet belong to someone else
The screams coming from my mind belongs to the voice
of a better leader
The blisters on my ankle
pained another victim, someone dead but they
yield more strength than I ever could.

Because of my not-so-selfishness
Rather titled entitlement
To get through the rabbit hole of thoughts
and say them outloud, with the shrill ring
that reaches everybody’s ears, like a fire alarm
Is to be slaughtered, silenced all over again

What became of me, how could I chose to prefer
living in this fantasy, where the flame never dissipates
good triumphs the lies, as fear trapped my voice


In another world, to tell you the truth
This body (of mine) belongs to another character
Perfect and flawed as she is, not me, but
I can pretend since she is dead
That burning fire the shade of her hair
turned into ash, her tombstone read
“to the fighting spirit left in this poet”
A plea to the raw and untouched inside me
to let her out and regain courage, march in my
own shoes in the world so pained that I left it.


Now, I look up to see stars
Compared to my dimension, they’re a different set
A reimagined galaxy
For the Scared to hide and wander in the space of foreign stars
And the moon with alien beauty
parchment instead of my notes app
Pen instead of weary fingers, a writer’s typing hand

I look out the window
The sky, it’s filled with unseen bravery, less hidden
from the eye of someone who wants to see again
The dark, vacant sky makes me see things
Clouds, resembling a cloth, a ruler, camera lenses shattered
and a misfit pair of shoes
once mine, worn by nobody.


I almost forgot the feeling of finishing a poem
Looking up to see the fire let out, my flame is back
The moon is mine; it’s real
Battlefields anew, here, they will leave permanent scars

To the real world-
I’m not scared anymore


I forgot the feeling of finishing a poem
and the beat of the heart ringing in my ears
is mine to belong to.
Everything whitin me is let out
Hair rising, a familiar ash color, with resemblance to fire
and I’m left
So still inside.

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