LitArt Mag Issue No. 001

It’s this
thing. Perhaps you‘ve heard of it.
It’s—the space between
mirrors facing each other

the endless, crystalline gateway
not meant for travelling,
where cold voices speak
of disenchantment.

What do they say?
what did I say?

A length of fabric
drops between us
and pools at our feet.

Our breaths echoing
these cement walls—
Are you still facing me?
Which side are you on?

Do you think that maybe
I am no longer who I was yesterday?


Chelsea Yanga

Dark Peace

Chelsea Yanga

There’s rarely gentleness
anymore. There is always
a push, a pull, a twist of a knife
to slash through curtains.

Fragility has left
and all our souls, now hollow.
But what lingers there,
like stains on a carpet,

some call it quiet
some simply say
silence in between
the sounds of the living

Dark peace.

Like a loose mask
with cemented eyes.

a thought nestles
at the very end, in the mind
like some parasite

I am only occupying someone’s body.
I am not someone good.

There is a hole
where my mouth should be,
a void.            

The sound it makes
clashes with tile,
unwelcoming and bitter
piercing through everything
we’ve built.

You built.
Know I am not with you.

I just hope
on the other side
               and me,

listening in
could decipher
the frigid bones
inside our bodies.

I know we are one person.
Same flesh,
same feeling.

Same understanding
when my head would
turn straight toward a shower’s spray
and wish myself sleep.

Spitting Image

Chelsea Yanga

About the Author

Chelsea Yanga is a 22 years old, filipina,bisexual, poet. She often writes about mortality, floriography, and nature. She admires Pablo Neruda’s carefree poetry, Mary Oliver’s observation on death, and Emily Dickinson’s ferocity.

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