Mine

I am not in love
My heart has always been my own even when it is plastered on my sleeves, shirt, pants, and socks.
It is always my property
But even as physical property may be
I sometimes believe it was never there.
That the beating I feel within my chest is merely the echo of air.
The question: “What is left of me?”
Etched into my lungs when invisibility seems inevitable.
But, invisible or not, beating or not,
My heart is my own, until it is not

A Kwansaba

As the gray clouds stroll above it,
And the cold bite sinks into it,
War ceases itself to fully feel it.
Their dark pruned hearts swell with it
And bruised cheeks blush crimson to it.
But blush fades the same as bruise
So thank the rain until it floods. 

Lauren Hoy is an 18-year-old writer from Indio, California. One of her nonfiction essays was previously published with Inlandia: A Literary Journal in the 2021 Teen Issue. She only just began writing creatively in the past two years, but her main writing goal is to publish a book one day that she would be proud to call her own. To have readers feel deeply moved with her words is an experience she dreams to have one day.

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