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GLASS KITE ANTHOLOGY
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    • Issue 8 + 9
    • Issue 7

​Ghosts of Rain
by Jamie Han

There are storms inside people we will never see,
People with faces the color of rain and insipid dew.
We find sorrow in ourselves.
Never quite sure if it’s the air that’s killing us,
Or the love we surround ourselves with.
 
One day we will find ourselves wondering
Why the air tastes like salt just before daylight
Or why the ocean has a voice.
We’ll see faces of strangers in constellations,
Not knowing why they look so familiar
 
It’s because we have been here before,
And these are lives we’re forced to live
Over and over again,
Until being alive becomes waves of verbatim
 
That’s why we fall for people who taste like poison
We call it love: to find someone more damaged than we are,
To steal the scars from skin and wear them as our own
Because the pain makes us feel like we’re living.
 
In the end, we are all just someone else’s ghosts.

ICARUS
by Jamie Han

Call yourself Icarus and grow wings.
Fly higher until you can feel infinity
        press against the curve of your spine
              and whisper temptations of forever in your ears.
 
            Become intoxicated with the taste of gasoline,
until even heaven’s retinas burn at the sight of your flame.
Only then, will you understand what Apotheosis truly means.
                                      
                        And when you finally descend back to earth in glorious catastrophe,
                                  you will know love from those who wait for you even after   
                                                   the countless bridges you’ve burned.      
           
            To your lovers, let the stories of your travels speak;
                        let the truth get caught between your teeth.
                        And even among the smoke of sleepless nights,                     
                                                know that your life is not meant to entertain.                    
           
                        So do not be afraid to show them the scars on your arms and  
                        everything else that has made its home in your chest.            
                                                They are your stories to tell, and no one else’s.
 
                                                There is no need to romanticize anything.
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