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CICADA is many things—a YA lit/comics magazine fascinated with the lyric and strange, a safe and inclusive community for creative teens, a lighthouse in the weird stormy seas of the internet.
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  • Hello, CICADA Readers!

    CICADA can be smart, funny, weird, hopeful, dark, defiant—it’s a space where teens can see their truths explored and celebrated. We frequently publish teens’ work, as well as fiction, poetry, comics, zines, and interviews by a variety of established writers and artists. CICADA is an intersectional, LGBTQAI+ friendly publication that strives to ensure that teens see their authentic experience reflected on its pages.

    Join us! Writers, artists, and comic artists: Submit to CICADA

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    • I wrote this a while ago when I thought we could all use something a little less heavy and meant to post it here but then I didn't, so here it is now:


      We should all keep a secret diary

      in which to deposit our stupidest thoughts

      and lamest jokes that no one else will laugh at

      you know, the ones that follow no reasonable logic

      and reference 3 different fandoms

      and a good handful of inside jokes


      We all need a secret diary

      inside a well-worn leather cover

      or a very private online document

      or maybe in the margins of our most boring notebook

      whatever suits us best


      It's all right to have a secret diary

      it's not silly as long as no one finds out

      and they better not find out

      'cause if they do we'll be in trouble, won't we

      people might find out who we really are

      what a scandal!

      no no we can't have that


      So let's hold on to our secret diaries 

      don't let go of who we've learned to be

      or who we've just stumbled into becoming

      or who we've run away from but ended up as anyway

      because it's not just any old person who can see us all the way through

      so we'd better look good and hard ourselves

    • every word against my abusers character is still shards of broken glass within my throat 
      hot wet blood slick and thick drip into pages of books i'm trying to put down, set to rest, put to bed, 
      i am kin with the alien spacecraft hovering, dull and strange, pockmarked with memories of another world, marred with bullet holes,
      clouds gather at the edge of my vision, inside my greedy thankless throat they precipitate needlessly, desperately
      plastic keepsakes, gifts, tear me open at the seam, click against my bones foreign and slick in my bloodstream
      my thoughts are junk mail tossed aside but relentless and needy 
      i feel strange and sick and I would like to leave, now, please

    • we are the goon squad & we're coming to town

      *beep, beep*

    • @hayfevered Yeah, I remembered. Thanks!

    • So this was really spontaneous . . . 


      When I climbed the staircase

      up my spine

      I hoped to reach my brain

      but the road was littered with so many

      other people's thoughts

      I got lost


      but that's alright

      it's beautiful here

      full of

      words and music

      people singing and arguing

      my brain I think

      would be far too lonely


    • During a 30 minute wait at snow city the morning after my 8th grade graduation . . . 


    • here, in these heavy, yellow-bellied clouds
      swelled with the storm, pleased by the weight

      unraveled & mouthy comes thunder
      where spindle-weak fences pin down the hills

      & the hills let them, & the winds scream praises, &
      the barbed wires rename themselves please

      small suns dot the gaps between lightning fingers
      & the sky sobs yellow-green, like the stomach of a frog

      here, under these dripping prayers, sweetgrass laid limp
      over itself and dew-shining, i ride my bike to the end of the sidewalk

      & that, where the rain peels itself up from the concrete
      humid for the sunlight, greek iris in prosper

      & that, where i stop propped on one foot
      that is what love tastes like

      • Like 3
    • everyone else gave up on me


      it seems that there's no merit to life



      throw my ashes 

      off mt. fuji in



      because if i can't see

      the cherry blossoms

      i might as well

      become them


      i don't want a funeral

      i don't want to be remembered

      but don't worry


      the raven queen will

      treat me well

    • The symbolism of regret

      It hangs around you.

      What is guilt? It asks.

      “It’s you.” I reply.

      “It’s The constant reminders in


      Small things like windows.

      And folded pieces of paper you throw at the wall.

      You see their face everywhere.

      You can’t ever touch it.

      Or speak to it.

      It’s too far away and leaves you

      reaching for the mirage. 

      It is the clock on the wall.

      No one can ever fix.

      Because when he died it stopped.

      And he was the only one who knew 

      How to fix it.”