A students' magazine for mental health advocacy




Anna loves to fuck old men

she is a curious worm in the ear of a corpse

she snapchats me a picture of his bare ass

a white tooth from a grinning god,

a melting icecap in a motel bed


she is curved around him

a sweaty parenthesis

holding him invisible, a shrinking man

trapped in a long sentence reading

"It is my job to love the almost gones,

have you heard the labored breathing of a grandfather sleeping?

(how he sounds like a grand organ from an old dream,

like standing next to an ocean drained of fish?)"


when I visit her apartment I ask why she does not change the water

in her vase of wilting flowers,

the ones her mother brought from rehab

she says she likes the way the tulip's heads bow

to greet her when she comes home


I understand that she likes to try out death

to build bicycles from their bones while they are sleeping

ride them around in the parking lot

of the motel six

sometimes others meet her there

the arthritis racing team

the craigslist answered prayers

inner arms waterlogged with wine

trading secrets on how to live or die, depending on the night


she sends me a video of her having sex with him

I hold it in two hands

like a crime scene

a baby bird

or a bomb


the morning before she overdoses again

I spot her on the skyline

teetering on bone stilts above skyscrapers

the gape between her legs a highway for the city’s ghosts

hungry sky threatening to split her in half

holding the new sun between her shaking thighs

and waving



on the megabus from New York to Boston

I sit next to a boy reading an article on Buzzfeed

about being depressed in college

he looks barely thirteen

I watch him stitch himself into 10,000 different skins

they all smell like death

I watch as he builds houses he has already died in


I know the street he lives on now

the ghost town for quiet people

the graveyards with beds and decks and driveways built in

he has folded his body into a suitcase

he has left it on the front steps

a concrete daydream

a newspaper from the future

a baseball hat they will keep on the hook until they move away


when I get home my roommate asks me if everything is borrowing

if life is a space where a book should be

in a grand room

with a lazy librarian


he calls his antidepressants allergy pills in public,

a habit he picked up from me

we play house when we are alone

with nobody else to make us embarrassed

we have sex when we are too terrified to ask each other for help


I want to tell him about the boy on the bus

I think he already knows

these kinds of demons are always friends

worm eaten books nobody picks up

outdated gardening guides

unfinished cookbooks

a lost child's yearbook

the brief history of a town the earth swallowed


we often ask each other if we look any better

I tell him that if you put an ear to his naked ribcage

he sounds like the ambient hum of an almost silent bus

going off a cliff

he tells me I am the kind of shaking that can unhinge its jaw

the kind of cliff that uses buses

to pick its teeth



Reed Hexamer is a multimedia artist, performance and page poet who's work revolves around archiving trauma as a radical and political act. She writes on neurodivergence, queerness, growing pains, punk music and femme resilience. The creation of safer and braver spaces for youth poets is integral to her poetry practice, having led several workshops, poetry slams and open mics during her time as president of the MassArt Poetry Alliance. Hexamer's work has been featured in Potluck Mag, the Rain Party Disaster Society, If You Can Feel It You Can Speak It, Untitled Mag, Massachusetts College of Art and Design, Cybertwee Headquarters and Oakland ProArts.