Jump to content
Attention, CICADA community!
  • It’s time to say goodbye—the community at cicadamag.com is closing. Learn more...


Popular Content

Showing most liked content on 03/11/18 in all areas

  1. 3 points
  2. 2 points
    Also, am I the only one who wishes Thomas Sanders was cast as Simon in Love, Simon?
  3. 2 points
    My parents tell me that when I was little, they couldn't understand me. My sister had to translate, saying with a sigh, "she says 'I want ice cream'" or whatever I was trying to communicate to my parents. How fucking ironic is it that, more than a decade later, we're back with the same issue, but this time speech therapy won't help. We can't talk about the things that are important to me without calling my other sister to moderate. The only kind of therapy that can fix this is family therapy, and god knows how that would end. I was in first grade when I first met the nice lady who patiently corrected my lisps and mumbling. We played games and I met some pretty girls who were in 5th grade. I was a chatty fellow, telling stories as they picked me up from my classroom led me to the lady's room, where we practiced breathing through our noses and played Heads Up! My voice got better through the 4 years of speech therapy, but it was raspy for years after. In 5th grade, I joined chorus for the first time, and I fell in love. I pretended to hate it simply because everyone else hated it, but I loved it. I loved the vibrations in my throat and the sounds that poured from my mouth. For once, I had a voice, and it was beautiful. My year of chorus ended, and I left for middle school, where my voice was ripped from my throat by people who thought that I was something for them to destroy. I couldn't even order food at a restaurant. My mom became my voice, ordering my food, talking to the principal, even calling the cops on this one girl who prank called my cell phone for hours and hours on end. She stopped being my voice when I came out. No, she didn't stop being my voice, she stole it. She read my texts and I never got to come out. I never got to use my voice to tell her that I like girls. That I felt more like a boy than a girl. I wasn't able to tell her. She found out. I don't talk to my parents much. Sometimes it seems like our relationship is irreparable. But I'm speaking out, I'm rising up. I'm using my voice again, and I'm getting stronger everyday. I've found a family, and I'm being the man that I needed when my voice was gone. I'm in chorus now, and my tenor is strong, vibrating through the auditorium. I sing, telling everyone that they are not alone. That they can always use their voice. I'm living proof that they can make it. My voice is strong, and I am brave. My voice and I are friends. Sometimes, when I'm speaking and I want to claw my vocal cords out, I sing. I sing, and I feel the strength and the journey that it took to get me here.
  4. 1 point
    I never was the perfect child Not the daughter my parents wanted My mom isn't my best friend, My dad and I hardly speak My sister posts pictures of herself doing yoga on the beach, And I'm picking endlessly at my skin I'm not the perfect daughter. But I am building a life for myself. I'm becoming a man, Living up to my own standards. I'm teaching myself That life is meant to be lived That I deserve to breathe free I'm building my pride the way I've been building my muscle for three years now I'm breaking through the barriers I stand Bronze piston legs gleaming in the sun Wind whispering through my short red hair I'm the black sheep But I'm fucking glorious I am a majestic mother fucker This is my life to live And I'm gonna fucking live it.
  5. 1 point
    are you happy? was it worth it? we cower and flinch, brother and brother, shoulder to shoulder under warning palm-striking wooden spoon, tyrant of mistakes. i remember the little things that shape me, like the enduring, ingrained compulsion to eat pizza crusts regardless of dislike after you made my brother eat his out of the trash in 2007. i remember when you beat him over and over for telling lies. i remember when you found out he hadn't been, and gathered his little body into your arms like you could undo all that hurt with a sorry or two. i don't think he ever forgot. i remember being young and criss crossing behind a chair in the corner of a hospital waiting room when my sister was born. i remember the first time you hit her. dad remains the passive one, too shy and mellow to lift a hand to anyone. you are a force to be reckoned with. the me that was yours is no longer the me that is. i fear making even the smallest mistakes regardless that i know i've grown too much for you hit me anymore; this anxious thrumming beneath my skin is a tenuous thing, and at the worst of it, two years ago, i found new ways to bring my life closer to the endless stratosphere. in the night i dream of being your worthwhile son. are you happy? was it worth it? identity is a fluctuating, neverending thing, one of constant ebb and pull that beckons me out to the wide blue river mentioned in passing by gretchen weirob within a dialogue on personal identity. the water within is distinct but constantly flowing through, and yet the river it is remains the same river it was. her metaphor stood on both legs but for twenty-four hours, kneeling then at the feet of philosophy and laying out to be picked over and strung up by the fingertips for examination by later generations. john perry begs me to find myself. timeline theory flows from between my teeth, each syllable dripping from a new reality; the one in which i was loved is not the one i inhabit now. the one in which i am yours is not the one i inhabit now. and as i step forward into this branch of here, this branch of now, the parameters that my identity operates within resets; the stars above my head shift just a little to the left, and polaris blinks openmouthed at me while my prolixity lapses into quiet rumination. i forgive myself. and when the garage door rumbles open i flinch and my heart kicks me into fight-or-flight, tying my vocal cords closed and bowtied and shuttering the reason behind my eyes. your first orders come at a shout like barking rottweilers through the door, and my sister flees upstairs. every quiet, circuitous sentence is a plea laid at your feet; asking anything of you outright is a struggle. a friend's house is water circling the drain. you scream at me for clarity, and my mouth sews itself shut, sutures all catgut and copper wire. are you happy? was it worth it? i cannot speak.