The Day Innocence Died


It’s 2:10 on a Tuesday in Worcester

fifteen years and two seasons after my birth

as I walk the cracked sidewalks home. Deserted

as I stayed behind to discuss a paper with

a teacher that expected more. Disappointed

and downtrodden I carry on to the

soothing voices softly crooning in my ear. The

street I walk is never empty as I go on alone

and the sound of rubber along the concrete is

inconsequential until the unmistakable screech

of old brakes sounds next to me. Conditioned, I 

look up to the leering faces of men I do not know

with their window down and rolling tires in step

with me. After, alone, indecent words accompany me

as I hug my jacket closer and move my

jean-clad legs forward


The Love Song of Surrender 


I walk alone

against a watercolor backdrop

with muddled thoughts

and a heavy chest.

Though I breathe not with contempt

but in passion for the weightlessness

against cobbled streets as I get closer

and closer.


I see everyone with everyone

yet their pitied stares are no longer sharp

enough to sting a heart forged by yours.

It knows its limits and its place

in a room only missing the smoke

of past patrons.


And while you with your glitz and glamour

sleep alone in sedate thought,

I dream of eyes I’ve never seen before

in the amber of drowned feelings. 


Scared of Hot Things


She wears oven mitts when she irons

She uses gloves to curl her hair

              while tendrils of heat escape

                             as she releases the ringlet of golden

                                          to bounce against her head

She stands a foot away from the stove

              to dump the pasta into boiling water

She heats the oven

              and waits for her husband to get home


                             He asked her on their second date

              Would you rather burn to death or drown?



She turns the shower to a steaming heat

              and stands beneath the stream

                             for as long as she can



Biographical Note: Lauren Pichette is currently a junior at Suffolk University studying English with a concentration in Creative Writing. She is also minoring in Women & Genders Studies and loves to incorporate themes of gender equality and mental health into her writing pieces. Alongside her honor roll studies she is vice president and prose editor of her university’s literary magazine Venture and is secretary of the English club Intertextuals. She has plans to work as an editor as her future career but hopes to complete her childhood dream of becoming an author. She enjoys writing poetry to quiet her mind or to scratch her writing itch, and loves writing prose in short story, longer form pieces but wishes she had more time to do so. She has dreamed of being able to create pieces of literature to be shared and enjoyed by others since she was young to create a sense of belonging by reading that she herself experienced. Her hope is to continue to do this throughout her work now and long into the future.