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Seth Sukboontip '23

i. Bedroom


Wondering in the in-between,

in the land of lucidity,

of safety, of comfort.


Under the weighted blankets,

the midnight moon drowned

the noises—noises from the scarlet

paint scraping from the walls.


The town houses

the exiled, those perpetually running from what we may not know like the panicked—swimming, pool-

ing into the cauldron of burning oil.


Come back?



ii. Hallways


Reminiscing the time

when they lay in the open pasture,

free from the blood drenched water.


In limbo, you dash,

dash away into the empty

hallways lined with ripped wallpaper and

other rotting proofs of time.


They said the boy was frightened

to the point he turned white

like dusted chalk, trickling down the blackboard alongside their

meanings and purposes; yet they also said stars fish

for the hidden, shining them out for their shame...


Back to the purple lilac.



iii. Red Room


Many burning bruises,

blue and purple, covered

by the enchanted—entreated.


Studs, broken,

shaken, battered,

buckling under the pressure,

pressured by crimson warmth.


In the neglect rose

walls, she pondered, contemplating

which instrument to muse;

picking one, the startled starlings scattered in a primal screech—screeches


that corroded the soften lips.


For his eyes reflected the violet meadows, his ears reminding him of instinctual calls—calls

pleading with him to return. He wanted to scream, yet had no voice.


They found him among the starfish the next day.

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