Read All Our Pieces
At DisLit, we are honored to have received these works and are beyond thrilled to get to publish them on our website. We believe that each piece shown here highlights a unique voice and writing style that demonstrates youth talent to the highest degree possible. We sincerely hope that you enjoy reading these pieces and we encourage and welcome your submissions to DisLit too!
Where Is My Heart?
By Sasi Kondru
My heart is in the people around me
when I took my first steps
where they took their last breaths
where I could dream to be anything
And every night the birds would sing
My heart is where I was bid farewell to a whole new world
Kept safe from the corruption it showed
And whenever I’m crushed, crumpled up, and alone
I always have a place to go, and it’s called home
About Sasi Kondru:
Sasi is a rising senior from Texas who loves to write short stories and poems! She mainly likes to write about daily life and nostalgia.
By Sasi Kondru
My heart is in the people around me
when I took my first steps
where they took their last breaths
where I could dream to be anything
And every night the birds would sing
My heart is where I was bid farewell to a whole new world
Kept safe from the corruption it showed
And whenever I’m crushed, crumpled up, and alone
I always have a place to go, and it’s called home
About Sasi Kondru:
Sasi is a rising senior from Texas who loves to write short stories and poems! She mainly likes to write about daily life and nostalgia.
Paper Cranes
By Megan Desgagné-Périard
I once was folding paper cranes
From autumn until spring
And when I thought I heard a bird
I tried to make them sing.
I handled them with care, fragile
Like the wings of a butterfly
Precious little folded creatures
Will never come to life
The cranes might never fly
But my hopes and wishes do
And since I folded them a thousand times
They'll someday become true.
The cranes carry my secret
And with every new bird
I wish they would take me away
Where I wont get hurt
About Megan Desgagné-Périard:
Being alive for eighteen years is a lot, and hardly enough ; Asteria is a canadian student who thrive in expressing her emotions and in drinking tea on a rainy afternoon ♡
By Megan Desgagné-Périard
I once was folding paper cranes
From autumn until spring
And when I thought I heard a bird
I tried to make them sing.
I handled them with care, fragile
Like the wings of a butterfly
Precious little folded creatures
Will never come to life
The cranes might never fly
But my hopes and wishes do
And since I folded them a thousand times
They'll someday become true.
The cranes carry my secret
And with every new bird
I wish they would take me away
Where I wont get hurt
About Megan Desgagné-Périard:
Being alive for eighteen years is a lot, and hardly enough ; Asteria is a canadian student who thrive in expressing her emotions and in drinking tea on a rainy afternoon ♡
long division
By Kitty Margetts
I know you think I’m stupid
I know you laugh at the blindfold I was born with, the blindfold that
Makes me amaurotic to the sun dials violently carved into my worst fears
I know you believe I am
Dumb
Because I can’t stop numbers from escaping my mind
And I forget mathematical formulae like
The axe forgets the tree
It does not matter
If the blood in your veins is twin to mine
Or you are only an acquaintance
I can tell what you think of me.
I can see it in the whispers, hear it
In the tone of your sandpaper voice as you explain a sum to me
As if I am a petulant child who refuses to learn rather than not being able
to
But tell me, would a child
Work doubly, triply, quadruply as hard as everyone else
Work like a dog enslaved to it’s master, Pythagoras
Work tirelessly until the only flesh left on my body
Is the skin on my writing hand,
Just to fail.
Again.
Every time that graded test lands softly onto my desk
I hear bombs falling ruthlessly on my last shred of hope
Screaming as the teacher drags my dignity away
My greyish eyes,
Purple lines around them like broken mug ring,
Happen upon that omnipresent letter:
“D+”
Not quite a pass
Another part of my despairing soul dies without a struggle
Immediately I am expected to move on
To dust myself off and keep going
As if I haven’t put in all those nights and days of effort for nullity
Just
Like
That.
I don’t have much fight left in me
Sooner or later I will succumb to the
Fate I have been running from my whole life
And hang my head in shame as the cleverest person I know
Shoves the dunce’s cap onto my head
I can’t outrun it this time
After all,
I have been
Not quite passing
Since the day I was born, blindfold and all.
About Kitty Margetts:
Kitty Grace is a dyscalculic teenaged poet from Wales. For Kitty, writing is a way of life, a birthright, a lifeline in the messy sea that is growing up. She swears that the blood running hot in her veins is not scarlet, but the colour of ink.
By Kitty Margetts
I know you think I’m stupid
I know you laugh at the blindfold I was born with, the blindfold that
Makes me amaurotic to the sun dials violently carved into my worst fears
I know you believe I am
Dumb
Because I can’t stop numbers from escaping my mind
And I forget mathematical formulae like
The axe forgets the tree
It does not matter
If the blood in your veins is twin to mine
Or you are only an acquaintance
I can tell what you think of me.
I can see it in the whispers, hear it
In the tone of your sandpaper voice as you explain a sum to me
As if I am a petulant child who refuses to learn rather than not being able
to
But tell me, would a child
Work doubly, triply, quadruply as hard as everyone else
Work like a dog enslaved to it’s master, Pythagoras
Work tirelessly until the only flesh left on my body
Is the skin on my writing hand,
Just to fail.
Again.
Every time that graded test lands softly onto my desk
I hear bombs falling ruthlessly on my last shred of hope
Screaming as the teacher drags my dignity away
My greyish eyes,
Purple lines around them like broken mug ring,
Happen upon that omnipresent letter:
“D+”
Not quite a pass
Another part of my despairing soul dies without a struggle
Immediately I am expected to move on
To dust myself off and keep going
As if I haven’t put in all those nights and days of effort for nullity
Just
Like
That.
I don’t have much fight left in me
Sooner or later I will succumb to the
Fate I have been running from my whole life
And hang my head in shame as the cleverest person I know
Shoves the dunce’s cap onto my head
I can’t outrun it this time
After all,
I have been
Not quite passing
Since the day I was born, blindfold and all.
About Kitty Margetts:
Kitty Grace is a dyscalculic teenaged poet from Wales. For Kitty, writing is a way of life, a birthright, a lifeline in the messy sea that is growing up. She swears that the blood running hot in her veins is not scarlet, but the colour of ink.
As summer unfolds, so do I
By Samantha Szumloz
In June, I was an orange creamsicle,
sweet, tangy, and pure-white on the inside.
I would dissolve in the mouths
of whoever stole me from my fridge.
I would melt with a smile even as my color
faded and dripped down their chins.
So in July, I became a popsicle stick,
with nothing to cover my birchwood.
I wasn’t a sweet treat anymore. I was
food for the garbage can, and that’s
where I ended up.
I stayed at the bottom of the garbage can
until a dog sniffed through the waste
and found me. That beast gnawed on me
until I snapped in half and formed a sharp edge
sharp enough to stab eyes.
When August rolled by,
I was no longer an orange creamsicle,
or a wooden popsicle stick stuck in the trash.
I was a safety hazard, a threat
to bare feet and teething babies.
I became the menace
you don’t see coming.
About Samantha Szumloz:
Samantha Szumloz is a junior Writing Arts major minoring in creative writing at Rowan University. Her work has been featured in publications such as Moria, Woodbury University's national literary magazine, and R U Joking?, Rowan's comedy publication. She is from Hamilton Township, New Jersey.
By Samantha Szumloz
In June, I was an orange creamsicle,
sweet, tangy, and pure-white on the inside.
I would dissolve in the mouths
of whoever stole me from my fridge.
I would melt with a smile even as my color
faded and dripped down their chins.
So in July, I became a popsicle stick,
with nothing to cover my birchwood.
I wasn’t a sweet treat anymore. I was
food for the garbage can, and that’s
where I ended up.
I stayed at the bottom of the garbage can
until a dog sniffed through the waste
and found me. That beast gnawed on me
until I snapped in half and formed a sharp edge
sharp enough to stab eyes.
When August rolled by,
I was no longer an orange creamsicle,
or a wooden popsicle stick stuck in the trash.
I was a safety hazard, a threat
to bare feet and teething babies.
I became the menace
you don’t see coming.
About Samantha Szumloz:
Samantha Szumloz is a junior Writing Arts major minoring in creative writing at Rowan University. Her work has been featured in publications such as Moria, Woodbury University's national literary magazine, and R U Joking?, Rowan's comedy publication. She is from Hamilton Township, New Jersey.
Weight of a Moment
By Ayden Poleynard
I Look At Myself in the Bathroom Mirror as my hands feel the water, cold and clean. I have a buzz cut, I just turned seven yesterday, my mind has not thought the thoughts it will think in eight years. I do not know that this is the first handwashing of the twenty more that will occur in the next three hours, the first of two hundred this week, of countless thousands this year. I do not know that my neurons have encountered a roadblock, and they’re crashing like waves, a tsunami that is turning my mind into debris washed out to shore.
I do not know that I will carry the weight of this moment for the rest of my life.
About Ayden Poleynard:
Ayden lives with severe mental illness, with conditions such as OCD and a psychotic disorder.
Despite these challenges, he still is a creative at heart, and loves writing poems, prose, playing
the piano, and drawing. In the fall he will start his first semester of college, where he is majoring
in psychology. He lives on the west coast with his family and five cats. You can find more of his
poems at @Averyaydenpoems on instagram.
By Ayden Poleynard
I Look At Myself in the Bathroom Mirror as my hands feel the water, cold and clean. I have a buzz cut, I just turned seven yesterday, my mind has not thought the thoughts it will think in eight years. I do not know that this is the first handwashing of the twenty more that will occur in the next three hours, the first of two hundred this week, of countless thousands this year. I do not know that my neurons have encountered a roadblock, and they’re crashing like waves, a tsunami that is turning my mind into debris washed out to shore.
I do not know that I will carry the weight of this moment for the rest of my life.
About Ayden Poleynard:
Ayden lives with severe mental illness, with conditions such as OCD and a psychotic disorder.
Despite these challenges, he still is a creative at heart, and loves writing poems, prose, playing
the piano, and drawing. In the fall he will start his first semester of college, where he is majoring
in psychology. He lives on the west coast with his family and five cats. You can find more of his
poems at @Averyaydenpoems on instagram.
My Ocean And Its Sky
By Doris Ho
It is a wave of the ocean everyday
Some waves might not be mighty enough
But that is merely a small part of the ocean
My ocean is full of dreams
My dreams are distant images which drives me to exploration
Adventures always lead to some of my worst nightmares
Those nightmares are heavy
Yet they will soon become a ticket to somewhere
Where I can say checkmate
My ocean is indigo
When the sky is full of benevolence
My ocean turns dirty
When your charades and preconceptions are shipping on me
I would post all of my guards
To let you out of my territory
While in the deepest
I would be protected by my enthusiasm
My hero will teach me how to fly
One day
My nightmares will become my gears to win
My ocean will be as gleaming as the stars at the sky
Shining straight into your avenue
About Doris Ho:
Hey guys this is Aurelia♡ I am a 17 year old girl from Hong Kong. I love to write to express
my feelings. Don’t get dragged down when someone annoys you, write it down. @aureliadiary
By Doris Ho
It is a wave of the ocean everyday
Some waves might not be mighty enough
But that is merely a small part of the ocean
My ocean is full of dreams
My dreams are distant images which drives me to exploration
Adventures always lead to some of my worst nightmares
Those nightmares are heavy
Yet they will soon become a ticket to somewhere
Where I can say checkmate
My ocean is indigo
When the sky is full of benevolence
My ocean turns dirty
When your charades and preconceptions are shipping on me
I would post all of my guards
To let you out of my territory
While in the deepest
I would be protected by my enthusiasm
My hero will teach me how to fly
One day
My nightmares will become my gears to win
My ocean will be as gleaming as the stars at the sky
Shining straight into your avenue
About Doris Ho:
Hey guys this is Aurelia♡ I am a 17 year old girl from Hong Kong. I love to write to express
my feelings. Don’t get dragged down when someone annoys you, write it down. @aureliadiary
Tourette's Syndrome
By Samantha Raredon
Tic, tic, tic,
Boom.
The boom is feeling every muscle in my body
Take on its own form,
Listen to its own rules,
Cave in on itself just to get back at me,
The boom is my soul crawling out of my bones
Because it doesn’t feel safe inside
When arms and legs are flailing
And I can’t ensure what’s to happen next
Like a typical body should,
The boom is my heart,
Thump, thump, THUMP!
When one side of my brain yells STOP,
And the other decides it’s time to
Dance, prance,
Jump all around and live freely from a mind
So demanding.
The boom is the sound
Of my hopes hitting the rough concrete,
Landing with a hearty SPLAT!
Knowing nothing in the world can
Get my brain and heart to agree
With what my own body decides to do.
About Samantha Raredon:
Samantha E. Raredon is an unpublished 14 year old writer and poet in 9th grade from America, in the state of Michigan, who showed her first interest for being a writer when she was in Kindergarten, and ever since then, has made it her goal to write touching books, short stories, and poems for the struggling and the striving.
By Samantha Raredon
Tic, tic, tic,
Boom.
The boom is feeling every muscle in my body
Take on its own form,
Listen to its own rules,
Cave in on itself just to get back at me,
The boom is my soul crawling out of my bones
Because it doesn’t feel safe inside
When arms and legs are flailing
And I can’t ensure what’s to happen next
Like a typical body should,
The boom is my heart,
Thump, thump, THUMP!
When one side of my brain yells STOP,
And the other decides it’s time to
Dance, prance,
Jump all around and live freely from a mind
So demanding.
The boom is the sound
Of my hopes hitting the rough concrete,
Landing with a hearty SPLAT!
Knowing nothing in the world can
Get my brain and heart to agree
With what my own body decides to do.
About Samantha Raredon:
Samantha E. Raredon is an unpublished 14 year old writer and poet in 9th grade from America, in the state of Michigan, who showed her first interest for being a writer when she was in Kindergarten, and ever since then, has made it her goal to write touching books, short stories, and poems for the struggling and the striving.
I was born to be a lover girl
By Kaci Kay
In the land where wild roses bloom,
There dwells a girl with love in her womb.
Born to be a lover, pure and true,
Her heart beats for a love that's new.
With eyes that shine like morning dew,
She seeks a love that's tried and true.
Her soul is filled with passion's fire,
Burning bright with sweet desire.
She dances in the moonlit night,
Her spirit free, her heart alight.
With every step, she sings a song,
Of love and joy that last long.
In her embrace, the world finds peace,
Her love a balm that never cease.
She was born to be a lover girl,
Her love a precious, priceless pearl.
So let her love light up the sky,
As she spreads her wings and learns to fly.
For in her heart, a flame does swirl,
Forever she'll be a lover girl.
About Kaci Kay:
Kaciann Weller is a talented fourteen-year-old writer who has already made significant strides in the literary world. Born with an innate passion for storytelling, Kaciann began writing at a young age and quickly developed her skills through dedication and perseverance. Her love for literature spans across various genres, including fiction, fantasy, and poetry. With each piece she creates, Kaciann captivates readers with vivid imagery and compelling narratives that showcase her unique perspective on life.
Grade : 9th
Where are you from? Jamaica
By Kaci Kay
In the land where wild roses bloom,
There dwells a girl with love in her womb.
Born to be a lover, pure and true,
Her heart beats for a love that's new.
With eyes that shine like morning dew,
She seeks a love that's tried and true.
Her soul is filled with passion's fire,
Burning bright with sweet desire.
She dances in the moonlit night,
Her spirit free, her heart alight.
With every step, she sings a song,
Of love and joy that last long.
In her embrace, the world finds peace,
Her love a balm that never cease.
She was born to be a lover girl,
Her love a precious, priceless pearl.
So let her love light up the sky,
As she spreads her wings and learns to fly.
For in her heart, a flame does swirl,
Forever she'll be a lover girl.
About Kaci Kay:
Kaciann Weller is a talented fourteen-year-old writer who has already made significant strides in the literary world. Born with an innate passion for storytelling, Kaciann began writing at a young age and quickly developed her skills through dedication and perseverance. Her love for literature spans across various genres, including fiction, fantasy, and poetry. With each piece she creates, Kaciann captivates readers with vivid imagery and compelling narratives that showcase her unique perspective on life.
Grade : 9th
Where are you from? Jamaica
To Drown
By Kaia Ishizaki
it's hard to breathe
hard to keep my head
above the surface of the water
of the rising tides
as I tread water
doing everything I can
using every single ounce of energy
I can muster
to stop myself
from succumbing
to the fate I wish I wasn't destined to
About Kaia Ishizaki:
Kaia is a 16 year old aspiring writer residing in California! Instagram: @ki._.writes
By Kaia Ishizaki
it's hard to breathe
hard to keep my head
above the surface of the water
of the rising tides
as I tread water
doing everything I can
using every single ounce of energy
I can muster
to stop myself
from succumbing
to the fate I wish I wasn't destined to
About Kaia Ishizaki:
Kaia is a 16 year old aspiring writer residing in California! Instagram: @ki._.writes
Healths Riches
By Jezabel Castillo
What a beauteous
privilege it is to
cherish the ripe
peaches of health.
They say youth is merry,
but it is a cloaked expiration
cause my riches got stolen –
Illness:
A closed case of robbery.
Fiends take my
plum glacial hands
to sit by windows
with a touch of
binding forlorn.
My hazed rivulet
eyes envy pedestrians
sipping a $6 cup of coffee
in the streets of New York City.
Can they see my
body submerging
Like a willow tree
lost in the sea?
(Where it was never supposed to be).
I talk to my
unopened letters
I fear are my tears
“Let the medicine perch
in my rugged soul to soothe
the turmoil before it develops
into a warzone.”
Grant me the slightest bit
of sweet relief!
The loss of healths riches
is already the worst punishment.
About Jezabel Castillo:
Jezabel Castillo is a Poet from NYC with a major in Writing and Literature. With many years of writing, her work explores emotional poetic themes to help readers find a sense of belonging. Her work has been published in various literary magazines. Her most recent writing pieces have appeared in the Remington Review, Contemporary Jo, Catheartic Magazine, and Clementine Zine Magazine. You can find more of her poetry on Instagram @jezxpoet
By Jezabel Castillo
What a beauteous
privilege it is to
cherish the ripe
peaches of health.
They say youth is merry,
but it is a cloaked expiration
cause my riches got stolen –
Illness:
A closed case of robbery.
Fiends take my
plum glacial hands
to sit by windows
with a touch of
binding forlorn.
My hazed rivulet
eyes envy pedestrians
sipping a $6 cup of coffee
in the streets of New York City.
Can they see my
body submerging
Like a willow tree
lost in the sea?
(Where it was never supposed to be).
I talk to my
unopened letters
I fear are my tears
“Let the medicine perch
in my rugged soul to soothe
the turmoil before it develops
into a warzone.”
Grant me the slightest bit
of sweet relief!
The loss of healths riches
is already the worst punishment.
About Jezabel Castillo:
Jezabel Castillo is a Poet from NYC with a major in Writing and Literature. With many years of writing, her work explores emotional poetic themes to help readers find a sense of belonging. Her work has been published in various literary magazines. Her most recent writing pieces have appeared in the Remington Review, Contemporary Jo, Catheartic Magazine, and Clementine Zine Magazine. You can find more of her poetry on Instagram @jezxpoet
Evergreen
By Jezabel Castillo
The EKG
stalks every
heartbeat,
at least the IV
keeps the lights on
in black eyes
supposed to be brown,
and in tattered cheeks
supposed to be rosé.
I taunted my freedom,
now it spites me,
and my reward?
A twin size hospital bed
that craves me.
In hence I was told
to salute the breeze
where the trees ethos
lives in truant secrecy.
Now I praise
the darling buds
for the kiss of
natures evergreen.
About Jezabel Castillo:
Jezabel Castillo is a Poet from NYC with a major in Writing and Literature. With many years of writing, her work explores emotional poetic themes to help readers find a sense of belonging. Her work has been published in various literary magazines. Her most recent writing pieces have appeared in the Remington Review, Contemporary Jo, Catheartic Magazine, and Clementine Zine Magazine. You can find more of her poetry on Instagram @jezxpoet
By Jezabel Castillo
The EKG
stalks every
heartbeat,
at least the IV
keeps the lights on
in black eyes
supposed to be brown,
and in tattered cheeks
supposed to be rosé.
I taunted my freedom,
now it spites me,
and my reward?
A twin size hospital bed
that craves me.
In hence I was told
to salute the breeze
where the trees ethos
lives in truant secrecy.
Now I praise
the darling buds
for the kiss of
natures evergreen.
About Jezabel Castillo:
Jezabel Castillo is a Poet from NYC with a major in Writing and Literature. With many years of writing, her work explores emotional poetic themes to help readers find a sense of belonging. Her work has been published in various literary magazines. Her most recent writing pieces have appeared in the Remington Review, Contemporary Jo, Catheartic Magazine, and Clementine Zine Magazine. You can find more of her poetry on Instagram @jezxpoet
Home was behind your eyes
By Samantha Raredon
Place to place,
New roof to new roof,
Behind secure walls
Covered in posters,
Little pieces of
Everything I’ve ever loved,
Nowhere has ever felt like home.
From new friend to new friend,
I’d see dead ends behind their eyes
From the beginning,
Only behind yours,
I saw what I was never able to obtain
Under any roof,
Home.
Home was behind your eyes,
A campfire of passion
Always lit,
Enough spark for both
You and I,
When I knew I couldn’t
Settle in somewhere,
Make my own.
Home was behind your eyes,
And staring into them
Was the only way for me to feel
Secure.
About Samantha Raredon:
Samantha E. Raredon is an unpublished 14 year old writer and poet in 9th grade from America, in the state of Michigan, who showed her first interest for being a writer when she was in Kindergarten, and ever since then, has made it her goal to write touching books, short stories, and poems for the struggling and the striving.
By Samantha Raredon
Place to place,
New roof to new roof,
Behind secure walls
Covered in posters,
Little pieces of
Everything I’ve ever loved,
Nowhere has ever felt like home.
From new friend to new friend,
I’d see dead ends behind their eyes
From the beginning,
Only behind yours,
I saw what I was never able to obtain
Under any roof,
Home.
Home was behind your eyes,
A campfire of passion
Always lit,
Enough spark for both
You and I,
When I knew I couldn’t
Settle in somewhere,
Make my own.
Home was behind your eyes,
And staring into them
Was the only way for me to feel
Secure.
About Samantha Raredon:
Samantha E. Raredon is an unpublished 14 year old writer and poet in 9th grade from America, in the state of Michigan, who showed her first interest for being a writer when she was in Kindergarten, and ever since then, has made it her goal to write touching books, short stories, and poems for the struggling and the striving.
Focus: Optional
By Vidushi Kalathma
If there's one thing you should know about me, it's this; I will always have one eye on the
prize, and the other eye... a little bit unfocused.
Okay, sorry. Jokes aside, I don't often write about my disability. I tend to write about
politics, teenage awkwardness, and how I wish someone would look at me the way my eyes look
at each other. But I think I should talk about the lazy eye and how my boyfriend always thought I
was seeing someone on the side (get it? Sorry. We’re moving on, now).
Truthfully, my lazy eye has never been a topic of discussion. I never embraced being
different from a lot of people for most of my childhood, and much of that is because I grew up in
a family that shunned the word 'disability.' I mean, I know now it's not a word I should be
ashamed of, but unfortunately when you're brown and you look a little bit weird, they just say
you look special and hope you become a doctor anyway.
I have always been insecure. I can't deny that. I'm insecure in photos. I'm insecure with
people. I'm insecure when I look in the mirror. And I'm even more insecure when people ask me
if I've ever considered surgery.
For obvious reasons, I won't put my personal health records out there on the internet, but
what I do want people to know is that I have my reasons. And hopefully that's enough because I
don't owe you anything. I don't owe anyone anything. I really just don't want surgery.
And as for other options, yes, trust me, I have tried hitting the side of my head like Thor
did when he got a new eye from Rocket. And no, it didn't work. Clearly.
From a young age, I had to find a way to be myself in a culture that didn't necessarily
allow it. I was a girl, I was disabled, and I was queer. Oh look! The holy trinity of diversity
jackpot!
I talk about it with humor now, but truthfully I really did feel alone for most of my life. I
had friends, sure, but from an early age, I grappled with fitting into a world that often overlooked
or misunderstood my differences. To break the box, I had to rebel, but I had to do it my own
way.
I had to redefine what beauty and acceptance meant to me. And unfortunately I couldn’t
wait for a white supermodel to do that for me.
It started with dressing the way I wanted only to look back and absolutely hate the cringe
pictures. It started with me cutting my hair extremely short after I left school only to realize I
hated presenting masculine. It started to become how I talked about myself, when I'd choose
myself, and why I was the way I was.
It ended with me learning to love myself. I'm well aware, perhaps more than others, how
imperfect I am. But that's okay with me. I know I bring more to the table than just a weird-
looking eyeball. I let my disability define me, but I don't let it foreshadow who I am. I'm proud to
be who I am, even though I'm getting extremely tired of the Miss Crawly jokes.
So hey, to anyone who looks straight at me (well, technically you can't, but if you do) and
sees my disability first, I suggest you look at what I'm wearing. I wasn't stuck in the closet for fifteen years for y'all to sleep on my style, y'know?
About Vidushi Kalathma:
Kalathma Hitihamige is a seventeen-year-old queer writer from the tiny island of Sri Lanka. Often inspired by political outrage and pretentious classical fiction, she spends most of her nights writing on Medium. An enthusiastic Potterhead, she also enjoys her life as a full-time man-hater.
By Vidushi Kalathma
If there's one thing you should know about me, it's this; I will always have one eye on the
prize, and the other eye... a little bit unfocused.
Okay, sorry. Jokes aside, I don't often write about my disability. I tend to write about
politics, teenage awkwardness, and how I wish someone would look at me the way my eyes look
at each other. But I think I should talk about the lazy eye and how my boyfriend always thought I
was seeing someone on the side (get it? Sorry. We’re moving on, now).
Truthfully, my lazy eye has never been a topic of discussion. I never embraced being
different from a lot of people for most of my childhood, and much of that is because I grew up in
a family that shunned the word 'disability.' I mean, I know now it's not a word I should be
ashamed of, but unfortunately when you're brown and you look a little bit weird, they just say
you look special and hope you become a doctor anyway.
I have always been insecure. I can't deny that. I'm insecure in photos. I'm insecure with
people. I'm insecure when I look in the mirror. And I'm even more insecure when people ask me
if I've ever considered surgery.
For obvious reasons, I won't put my personal health records out there on the internet, but
what I do want people to know is that I have my reasons. And hopefully that's enough because I
don't owe you anything. I don't owe anyone anything. I really just don't want surgery.
And as for other options, yes, trust me, I have tried hitting the side of my head like Thor
did when he got a new eye from Rocket. And no, it didn't work. Clearly.
From a young age, I had to find a way to be myself in a culture that didn't necessarily
allow it. I was a girl, I was disabled, and I was queer. Oh look! The holy trinity of diversity
jackpot!
I talk about it with humor now, but truthfully I really did feel alone for most of my life. I
had friends, sure, but from an early age, I grappled with fitting into a world that often overlooked
or misunderstood my differences. To break the box, I had to rebel, but I had to do it my own
way.
I had to redefine what beauty and acceptance meant to me. And unfortunately I couldn’t
wait for a white supermodel to do that for me.
It started with dressing the way I wanted only to look back and absolutely hate the cringe
pictures. It started with me cutting my hair extremely short after I left school only to realize I
hated presenting masculine. It started to become how I talked about myself, when I'd choose
myself, and why I was the way I was.
It ended with me learning to love myself. I'm well aware, perhaps more than others, how
imperfect I am. But that's okay with me. I know I bring more to the table than just a weird-
looking eyeball. I let my disability define me, but I don't let it foreshadow who I am. I'm proud to
be who I am, even though I'm getting extremely tired of the Miss Crawly jokes.
So hey, to anyone who looks straight at me (well, technically you can't, but if you do) and
sees my disability first, I suggest you look at what I'm wearing. I wasn't stuck in the closet for fifteen years for y'all to sleep on my style, y'know?
About Vidushi Kalathma:
Kalathma Hitihamige is a seventeen-year-old queer writer from the tiny island of Sri Lanka. Often inspired by political outrage and pretentious classical fiction, she spends most of her nights writing on Medium. An enthusiastic Potterhead, she also enjoys her life as a full-time man-hater.
Chained to Death
By Justine
It rained the day we got the phone call
"Auntie Annette has died."
The sky cried more than I
for I never understood why.
I never saw the pain behind your eyes
Or the way your smile would falter.
I had not known then,
that some wounds ran deeper than the naked eye.
The earth mourned your soul
when you left those who cherished you,
embracing you into her dark, cold depths
While time worked to replace what had been lost.
In a flash of sickening grief
realization struck
And I thought to myself
I would never see Annette again.
What tormented the shadowy corners of your mind?
Which demons whispered in your ear,
convincing you that this was the only way?
Did you even think of me as you took your final breaths?
About what you were leaving behind?
My brain rejects the concept of reality without you in it.
You used to live next door,
through the field and into Crocus Coulee.
Now you lie beneath my feet,
buried six feet under.
Chained to death
when you could have walked with life.
About Justine:
Justine M. Horn is an 11th grade student based out of Canada. She has always been passionate about writing, and has many works in progress that she hopes to publish in the future. In addition to writing, she enjoys curling up with a cup of tea and a good book, as well as going on long walks with nothing but her imagination to keep her company. You can find more of her work on Instagram at @justinewrites_
By Justine
It rained the day we got the phone call
"Auntie Annette has died."
The sky cried more than I
for I never understood why.
I never saw the pain behind your eyes
Or the way your smile would falter.
I had not known then,
that some wounds ran deeper than the naked eye.
The earth mourned your soul
when you left those who cherished you,
embracing you into her dark, cold depths
While time worked to replace what had been lost.
In a flash of sickening grief
realization struck
And I thought to myself
I would never see Annette again.
What tormented the shadowy corners of your mind?
Which demons whispered in your ear,
convincing you that this was the only way?
Did you even think of me as you took your final breaths?
About what you were leaving behind?
My brain rejects the concept of reality without you in it.
You used to live next door,
through the field and into Crocus Coulee.
Now you lie beneath my feet,
buried six feet under.
Chained to death
when you could have walked with life.
About Justine:
Justine M. Horn is an 11th grade student based out of Canada. She has always been passionate about writing, and has many works in progress that she hopes to publish in the future. In addition to writing, she enjoys curling up with a cup of tea and a good book, as well as going on long walks with nothing but her imagination to keep her company. You can find more of her work on Instagram at @justinewrites_