and nothing comes out. I didn’t know

what I was expecting— 

babies, perhaps? Ones with wings

too small to lift them back up,

cursed little things

with no-return policies.

As a child, I watched Dumbo and

thought that was how I arrived,

birthed from the sky, hand-delivered

by storks. In middle school, I learned

I was actually a product

of pain, that my mother wanted me

so bad she was willing

to be fucked over and over

by a man she only claimed to love,

a beggar cupping her hands, biting her lips

for hand-me-downs to start a new life.

When I arrived, I was so excited to leave

her behind, I almost tore her apart.

I couldn’t believe that. I wanted only

to believe in imaginary things:

Forces visible only to physicists.

Handsome heroes in YA novels.


The tear in the sky doesn’t heal.

Tears can’t, generally. I look up

and see a door with its hinges

battered to dust. In the breeze,

the ripped edges flagellate, protecting

its secrets like the makeshift umbrella

of a mother’s body in rain.

Soon, I stop wishing for something

to fall into my hands. Nothing is coming.

I watch the hole grow bigger. Only then

do I realize I’ve done something horribly,

horribly wrong.

Writer | Max Pasakorn |
Editor | Dustin Copeland ’25 |