Yet Another Thing That I Wanted to Say to Him (Amber J Lucik- Lafayette, LA)

When he asked me why I couldn't answer him, after he asked me why I had pushed that boy in school for calling me a name that I wouldn't repeat to anyone and he had waited with that stare that bragged that he knew exactly why and this was just some sort of exercise he was performing at best or just a mean trick at worst, I started to cry. Just turned red in the face and felt that horrible stretching tug in the middle parts of the cheeks while my other features all collapsed on themselves in some evacuation drill we must have learned as babies. And I screamed at him to stop looking at me like that, which he just took as another chance to prod. "Like What?" And me, ah the humiliation, "I don't know. Like an experiment. Like a lab rat." And his cold response colder, "Stop talking in cliches, child. You're better than that." And me, getting worse, "Stop it! Just stop. Just stop. Just. Just stop looking then." But not even as articulate as the words might seem right now, now that they are written down, compact, finite, with clear lines breaking around every sound. But gasps mixed in, and snot, my tongue retreating too, desperately curling back to my throat, my lips inflexible storm shutters drawn in at the siren of my wail. And his perpetual annoyance at my childishness, and my mother storming in, insisting that I was, in fact, a child, staring him down in a way I was getting better at not noticing though I wasn't there yet. A true warrior, that woman, fierce and precise, a wrangler of men and madness and he got up and went out to the car and left. Which means that it was he who caved, who cowarded out but I'm only starting to see that now. What I would have said, what I should have said, was this...Like a picture before it's the puzzle. Like my only purpose was always to be chopped up and then, insult, to be patched back together and all just for kicks. Like even the violent explosion of myself into pieces, glorious in its way, was NOT the point. That I'd be forever fragile, left to lie around on large flat objects so little pieces of me didn't accidentally crumble off and fall beneath a couch. Divisions would forever remain, and you could do it again at any time. Tear me up and start over. Same process, same result. And in that moment, there I was: Suddenly aware of the jigsaw warming up and staring me down. And not really understanding why it had to be this way. And you there with safety goggles on, deciding that you made me and that this was my purpose. And me wanting to find my own purpose. These things. What I could have said if I'd known the question was coming, with proper preparation, normalized sleep habits and good diet, hygiene the like. It was in me. The words. It just took me another 15 years to find. Old kook. Crazy old man. Where are you?

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Louisiana Words Remembers Jorge Arturo

There’s nothing that hurts more than when we lose someone from our Louisiana Words family. But, the beauty of our writing movement is that the words of our loved ones live on with us. On June 20th, 2023, Louisiana Words Allstar, Jorge Arturo, moved on from this world leaving our hearts broken. He was a charismatic and talented human being. Jorge resided in New Orleans, LA and had been active on Louisiana Words for over a year. To honor Jorge’s life and work, we will be sharing his writing and live performances all Summer 2023. Please help keep his spirit alive by sharing his work. We know that Jorge’s words will connect with our readers and we hope to keep his spirit alive. Jorge’s first submission: “The Dog Show” debuted on February 6th, 2022 and is his most successful piece to date. In 2022, Jorge spent 10 weeks in the top with “The Dog Show,” “Weavers,” “They Say Love Kills, This Time It Really Did,” and “If Hell is Real, It Looks Like an Airport.” His last piece was “Fairy Tale

The Man Under the Water (TK Craft - New Orleans, LA)

Sitting at the edge of the small motorboat, Jordan willed himself to take deep slow breaths. Every time he opened his eyes and looked out at the endless water; panic began to overcome him. Against the vastness of the ocean his small frame felt like almost nothing, this sense only made his fear grow worse. All he could do was stare out at the still surface for what felt like hours trying to gather the strength to jump into the depths. When he was fifteen, Jordan almost drowned in the ocean. He hadn’t been particularly frightened of the water till that day. In fact, he had no real emotional connection to it at all. He’d taken swimming lessons every summer so when the riptide carried him further out to sea he didn’t panic. He just reoriented himself to the shore and dove down to begin a swim towards land. That’s when he saw him glistening in the depths. Jordan was proud of himself for sitting on the edge of the boat as long as he did. He spent the

Ash Wednesday (Brian Falcon - New Orleans, LA)

It’s forgettable- the number of times I was called a “fucking faggot” as a kid. As a former child of god, I wasn’t expected to know what those words meant. I was taught that repentance was vital to achieving everlasting life. My momma made me go to church every Sunday. I said my prayers as I was told. But I eventually learned that Catholicism was never my sanctuary. Christianity was never my safe-haven. God never stopped the cheap shots. He never once prevented the harassment or pure embarrassment that I felt from the words of my “kin in Christ.” Now, picture me- a helpless faggot, blinded by the incandescent lights of an old catholic church. I was home from college spending Spring Break in my former hellscape. So, naturally, my momma yet again made me go to church. This time, on a Wednesday. It was Ash Wednesday. When I was among the folks from home, I felt out of place. So much that I’d imagine camouflaging myself. Like saber-tooth in hiding. But the difference? I had a far more i

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