This month’s writing prompt was Reclaim. Here we showcase all the responses that were submitted.
Reclaim prompt: Reclaim the language, take back what’s yours, use your voice. Let the grass grow through the cracks and wildflowers take over. Bring back the beauty inside of you. Let it overgrow and reshape the landscape. Don’t be afraid to be loud and true and unruly.
When the scraps won’t do
You dangled the scraps in front of me,
Hoping that I would accept the rest.
You choose to hide what I needed
Wanting me to remain second best.
You hoped I’d stay in place,
You hoped I’d stay behind.
You hoped I wouldn’t know I deserved better
But you missed the flaw in your design.
I’ve taken all your scraps,
Woven them into greatness.
My strength now reinforced –
A patchwork of beauty.
Maybe I should thank you,
Maybe it seems bold.
You tore apart my weakness,
And fortified a stronger mould.
Joanne Macias (@joanne_macias_writer Insta)
Bonkers
I reclaim “mad” because there’s no shame in it. That’s what I am: mad. My grandma used to say “that’s not a nice word,” when I used it about myself but I feel neutral about it. It is now simply a description of my illness. I am mad. And that does not mean for me what it means in films or in news articles. It simply means that I live with mental illness. That sometimes reality is not the right way up for me, that sometimes I believe things that aren’t in line with this version of the world.
I think I have made my peace with being ill. A piece of peace. It’s hard to make my peace with it, because a psychotic break could happen at any time. It is instability, and comes with a great deal of risk. I am not in control of it, but all I can ever do is try my best. It is not within my control. But there are some things that are, I don’t drink now, I’ve given up smoking, I keep stress to a minimum. I am living a stable life alongside serious mental illness. For now. I am lucky.
I think of the dandelions in the gardens blossoming into suns and moons depending on the season, and I relate to these hardy little flowers. Resilient and beautiful. Like me, often surviving in difficult circumstances. I make a wish, and exhale.
Jessica Oakwood
You’re the best and the perfect person in this universe
I tried to cheer you up throughout this year,
Though you never needed or asked for it.
You're the best and the perfect person in this universe.
I'm writing a letter in June,
I'll send it to you on the last day of December.
For the time being, I won't call on your birthday,
I won't write to you on occasions.
Don't support me until the end.
I'm writing a letter in June,
I'll try to reclaim myself on the last day of December.
Inner Monologue (@innerr__monologue__)
ORANGE JUICE
my words are restrained
and too many truths remain lodged
between my teeth like seeds
for the visions of confessing
corroding cognition pull my chest taut
and leave me writhing restlessly
the few crumbs i do feed her
are delicately dissected, like an orange
she peels shell from flesh and divides
me into segments; sticky acidity bleeds
into abrasions and stains her beige sleeves
bright amber and i am bewildered that the
bite of this burden does not bother her
bitter sunset licking her fingers
like flames, she caresses my cheeks
and the citrusy sting i anticipate dissolves
into tolerable tingles; curiosity alight,
my tongue darts through trembling lips
and laps the sap slipping down my skin
i am surprised to realize sugar has
made her unforeseen return
it has only been three sessions
but already i am ravenous,
ready to resharpen my teeth
into razors and sink them deeply
into my calloused casing; tartness
will entice my tongue to retreat,
but the rage to reclaim will remain
and eagerly i will await the inevitable
resurgence of my sweet juice
Pixie Marie (@pyxeigh Insta)
Slice of Steak
Urdu is an enormous slice of steak
of your favourite restaurant
that keeps calling you,
so succulent that you would
want to detain every morsel
between your teeth, relishing
every bit of it, not swallowing it all at once
but slowly munching, greed evident
from your eyes sparkling with exhilaration,
you do not want to let it go so easily
even when you’re on a strict diet
there are days
when I want to write about
separation, enemy, pain
(hijr) (harjai) (gham)
but I don’t know how to convey
the ideas in my mind
through proper sentences
how can I write in roman Urdu?
it’s distasteful and a disservice
to this astral language of lovers
I have no other path to tread
but write in the language
colonizers shackled Indians in;
we think in English, write in it
but every other day it makes
us feel
that we’re not a part of it
just a brick in its mighty tower
of expression
Urdu seems so much more familiar like the first child of the owner of your first rented apartment, his face a concoction of innocence, unscathed purity and solid love Urdu is my mother tongue and I wouldn't change it to save my life, what you don't know: I don't know how to write in Urdu and this inability nips my heart countless times every day.
Afra Ahmad (@zaraapens Insta)
I.
What you told me was impossible,
I’ve been able to achieve… like:
Knowing when it’s worth staying,
and knowing when it’s time to leave
Like, how to preserve the good in my heart,
while habitually wearing it on my sleeve
Like finding my faith and beginning to believe…
What you told me was impossible,
I’ve been able to achieve…
I am no longer in between the helplessness
and hopelessness where you left me to grieve.
B. Elae (@b.elae Insta)
Papi, why did you leave me?
I have chased spirituality
seeking you perhaps,
and finding you in the stars beyond
hoping this hollow might quiet
where the whispers of my own heart
said who I might always be:
“la Mujer sin Padre”
the woman without a father
I have worked, Papi
reclaimed my island waves in my speech
grasped our fiery rhythms into my pulse
all but you, my unphysical spirit guide
yet I question,
amidst these spiritual reflections
still wondering:
“Papi, why did you leave me?”
was it to carve this ache
deep into my being,
a constant reminder of what
I don’t have on earth anymore?
Acceptance of my life has been a bitter fruit,
yet here I am, grounded
by mami’s omnipresence —
a beacon of light, a fortress, my all.
Still, the daughter within me speaks out your name —
Dr. Rafael García García —
hoping you gaze upon me from the Universe
seeing your Muchacha, ahora todo una Mujer
with the courage to chase her dreams
conquering these waves of uncertainty
PhD in hand, a dance of intellect and spirit
After all these years, Papi,
I now feel you
in the triumph of
reclaiming our land and Spirit
intertwined.
I will always miss you
deeply endlessly.
but now I am starting to understand
our separation was
but a different type of
staying connected.
I used to ask, “Papi, why did you leave me?”
I find now, you never really did
I carry you in every heartbeat
In every breath, every dream
a perpetual embrace across realms
Papi: thank you for showing me
you have always been with me
te quiero y te querré.
Tu querida muchacha.
Dr. CarolLaine M García (@drcarollainemgarcia Insta)
Errands
Weekends had always been his.
He would never have admitted it, but he became difficult when he never got his way. Whatever he had to do was somehow more urgent, required both of their presence and left little room for weekends of her own.
She accompanied him on errands about town. There were prescriptions to collect, clothes to return, accounts to be settled, and watches to repair. By the time she got home and was finally in her own headspace, she could not do anything else — the day was spent.
She daydreamed endlessly in those days, imagining what she would do if she had the time to do it. Beyond her tasks, she desired to take a long walk — with no phone, nothing to carry, her hands in her coat pockets; a walk for the sake of walking, with no errands to run.
It had always felt within reach — next weekend or a spare morning somewhere, she’d find the time and make it her own. She anticipated it during wasted hours waiting in the car with the engine running, or while staring into the microwave, reheating the dinner he’d missed.
Sometimes she’d have secret weekends parallel to his. A paragraph in a book, knitting a row or two, a dirty joke shared with her sister on the phone. An opportunity to close her eyes and bask in the sunlight as she let the cat into the garden.
She had felt silly for it, but she once envisioned herself as the kind of person who got a train to London for the weekend. She’d stop for chai at her sister’s house, and fry samosas before they drove out to see what Buckingham Palace looked like from the outside. Plans had been made countless times and then pushed forward, so much so that it was difficult to tell what were new plans, and what were stale old ones that had never materialised.
—
After all the arrangements had been made and done, and condolences became infrequent – it surprised her to learn how quickly time had become hers again. It had been handed back to
her very suddenly before she was ready.
Now that it was in hand, it was everything else that eluded her. She took her long-anticipated walk without much fanfare. Buckingham Palace failed to impress her. The house was silent in the evenings.
She spent her mornings waiting for the day to begin. Finding receipts in odd places around the house, mementoes of material transactions they had with the world, and time transactions
they had with each other. Every wrinkled slip of paper was a day spent together. The kind of mornings where they planned a haggling strategy at the Sunday market, he remembered items on her shopping list, and she remembered items on his.
She had always wanted to reclaim what she thought was lost time. She believed that he held her back. It was true, he did. Stubborn as he was sometimes, perhaps she had been as well. He wasn’t here to tell her. Maybe she would’ve been a different person had they not been married all those years. Perhaps she would’ve moved somewhere else and lived a different life. It was easy to imagine but difficult to do.
Days of her own were bittersweet alone.
Furhad Khan (@campfirevampire Insta, @furhadkhan X)
Cunctipotent
I was 12 when I
whispered behind a palm
she’s a cunt
shards lodge in grey matter.
I cut my first tooth on cunt
fasten my shoelaces and pull up cunt as armor
no one bothers me on the bus cunt
over my shoulder,the man staring at the back of my head cunt
I splash makeup on serving cunt with the wing of my eyeliner
I eat cunt for breakfast and wash it down with a glass of water
I’ll hit your shin with my cane cunt
I chew on cunt like its the first meal I’ve had in ages
I wear cunt like my nana used to wear her favourite cardigan
the women in my life taught me to be cunt
they taught me to not let men take cunt from me
how they’ve made cunt a weapon an insult
my power is cunt.
I used to think cunt was the ultimate swear word
Snarled by people on the street cunt she’s a cunt
fucking cunt
call me a cunt and I will thank you
you’re right, I am all-powerful potent cunt.
Reclaiming cunt
for every teen girl who was horrified to hear
cunt whispered by the boys in the hall
the businesswoman with the corner office
the men in suits call frigid cunt
The woman walking her guide dog
who wouldn’t let the stranger grab her crazy cunt
the old woman who only ever knew
cunt as vile hateful.
We are able to make sun goddesses smile pure cunt
we are all rare powerful cunt magic.
by Tyler Harris (@tylersaurus1993 Insta, @tylersaurus X)
Time-worn
I set foot on the coastal brink,
where solitude was mine to own,
save for the cadenced swells,
and my yearning,
quaking,
amongst time-worn fields,
shrouded in selenic glints,
and echoes from afar.
In my time-eroded jeans,
frayed, weathered,
and the moss-touched cloak you gave,
I am drawn to oblivion.
by Đăng Khoa
swim press 