by Klaudine Bessasparis

Klaudine Bessasparis (she/her) is the Treasurer and a Poetry Editor for Venture. She is a Student Writing Consultant for Rider University’s Academic Success Center, a Copyeditor for Guardian Digital, and previously tutored students in entry-level Composition courses at Rider University. She is a book lover, an outdoor enthusiast, and a constant source of (very bad) puns. As a feminist who may talk about patriarchy a little too much, Klaudine presented an analytical work for Rider University’s 2023 Gender and Sexuality Studies Colloquium, where she geeked out over Tangled even while admitting its faults.

Your face is a tomb,
burying all those feelings
underground, it seems

until you friended me.
Then, your secrets leaked straight out,
skeleton’s fingers

breaking the birch wood,
and snaking out to bite me.
Why do you infect

me with your problems?
I’ve your picture in my mind,
but now the glass broke.

The shards cut my skin,
spreading your doubt, like red flags
waving in the wind,

head to shore, blood drips,
but you just can’t get enough
while you leech off me.

Like a therapist
I sit, waiting for you to
realize it’s too late.

You cannot turn back,
but I can’t let you move up.
You’re six feet under,

your reputation,
well, skeletons have killed it,
you can’t be revived.

You’re stuck in those poor
trenches, and I refuse to
grab a strong ladder.