Spring 2026

This page provides a brief description of each work in this special issue. To go to a work directly, click the bolded titles. Graciela Moore, “I Remembered Myself in Spanish” A lyrical essay about remembering oneself through language, culture, and the stories that shape identity. B Savon, “The Tragedy of the Wooden Boy” A storybook reflection on the expectations of individuals to restrict themselves from childlike qualities. Luna M., “Things I’d Leave Behind” A wishful poem a

Welcome to the second general issue, the third issue overall, of Voices Unheard! To returning readers, welcome back to yet another issue full of works on varying topics. And to newcomers, welcome to Voices Unheard, a publication dedicated to providing a platform for individuals to make themselves heard through creative expression. We aim to raise awareness of a variety of topics, from mental health to lived experiences to social justice. Above all, we share the voices of the

There are things I can say in English that I cannot feel. And there are things I feel in Spanish that refuse to be translated. For a long time, I thought fluency meant mastery. I thought the more precise my English became, the more powerful my voice would be. I learned early. Through television, through school, through survival. I learned how to articulate ideas, how to structure thoughts, how to be understood. And I was. But somewhere along the way, understanding replaced re

I feel bad for Pinocchio. How cool would it have been to be stringless? No attachments, No responsibilities, All of the magic, none of the stress. He gave it all up To chase his father’s dream. To be a ‘real’ boy. It’s a bit ironic. What's not ‘real’ about his adventure? Distant lands New friends Making wild choices. Being devious Chasing thrills Running free What was so wrong with that? His journey is real -- The fun The innovation The failure. That’s how we learn how to cre

If I had the chance to leave behind What makes my life a tragedy I'd leave every thought inside my mind-- Mainly the ones wrapped in anxiety. I would leave behind my cynicism and the anger that brews inside of me. I could also leave the immense sorrow that always leads to misery. And I'd leave behind my empathy, the kind that leaves me in tears over others' lives. And I'd definitely leave my trauma behind, that cut deeper than the sharpest knives. But most of all, I'd le

Guilt is a brush fire, charring her tissue paper skin. The burn of blame, the scorch of shame, like gasoline, stokes the flames. From somewhere beyond the abyss, a silvery voice, like snow, arrives quietly on a whisper, abruptly evaporating into the embers. The sound of grace often visits the self-imprisoned. Hawking up the ash that had made a home in her lungs, she wipes the toxins from her lips. “I am good,” she utters through hot tears, at long last, drinking in clean air.

There’s a thought, I sometimes have I like to pull it right Out of my head Hold it in the palm Of my hand Poke and prod at it Until it forms into A more acceptable shape Because I know better than to admit That I think All the things that I think or that If I were to maybe cut into myself Just enough to bleed! That I might be able to bleed out All the bad in me And there is so much bad That I don’t let anyone see So, when I cradle these thoughts Pull straight out of my head W

Gentle rain a drumbeat on my mind, effortless rhythm within it aligned. One solitary drop a whisper, tear from a cloud, dampens of sorrow that grows ever loud. The vast horizon evolves to gray, commanding its brilliance to run astray. Tiny puddles at my feet betray my thoughts, mirroring all the tireless wars I've fought. Though I love the thunder's roar, it’s the silence in its wake I can’t ignore. The rain bellows even louder then, speaks of the things I'll run from yet aga

Sometimes I miss the struggle to breathe in fresh air. It gave me purpose. But now I just float, bobbing up and down in waves in high and low tides. I try to pass time, so I look into the sky to appreciate the world around me. Where nothing is black and white, but often shades of grey. And yet I’m still blind. So I try to blame the sun, whose rays scathe my view But who do I blame when she puts them all away to trade with the moon? And even nighttime is no excuse for closed

Loneliness, the devil in disguise. You could be out anywhere, happy and jolly, when it suddenly looms over you out of nowhere. That heavy feeling of sadness as you’re reminded of how things used to be, phone constantly blowing up with notifications, loads of friends, true happiness to pure dead silence. The only notification you get is your phone telling you it's nearly out of battery, or that one company emailing you that you never unsubscribed from. You watch videos of p

I used to adore the winter as a child. But as I grew older, I realized it was colder inside than it was outside. So I’d much rather stay warm in spring. But somehow, when the wind blew, it reminded me of the frost that still lingered about. Fingertips remained cold as the air grew warm, while my body ran with fever in the frigid cold. How can one stay warm when the seasons forever change? Eventually, the cold returns all the same. Endlessly, I freeze over and thaw again. On e

It's a curious place for a caterpillar to crawl, on a ride that goes slow, as a horse bobs lazily up & down, traveling in a continuous cycle, one that loops back to the beginning. That's where this crawler found themself, I planted myself in that spot for awhile, as staying there had become familiar, & in some ways, an easier way to travel. But each caterpillar has a choice, to continue to idly loop, or to climb off the uncomplicated ride, & I am living that decision everyday

When my bedroom light was turned off, I’d put my hands together and pray not to be swallowed by the dark while scanning corners for what was no longer there. After a few breaths, my teddy bear would fade in– black eyes apologetic, paws reaching. The outlines of books would promise they’d never left, spines whispering good night. My little fingers would reappear, wiggling like glowworms no longer clutching the sheets. I remember this now when I find myself in shadow: to wait,

I leap into your arms, and suddenly I’m enthralled again. I never thought I could reach a place to give my all again. Please don’t let me down and make me feel so small again, One finger past the boundary and right from grace I’ll fall again. We’re such polar opposites— if only you had some gall to lend. When I was at rock bottom, I had to learn how to crawl again. Recovery isn’t linear, but I don’t wanna hit a wall again. You ask me what’s wrong, and of course I stop a

Called to the dance floor Broken at the party I can’t remember the last time I wanted to dance more To sing more To eat more To smile more To fake it more Sharp, throbbing, dull aches strap me to my seat A submissive to Table 9 Watching My Love jump high and dip low You, My Love, are a dream A dream that slips through my achy fingers I’ll never jump that high again, and if I do, I’ll feel the ripple and crumble for days after I try to stand Weakness in my leg pulls me back in

Sometimes, On nights, Insomnia and I stay up and share secrets, We talk about the times I met the spirits of my future children when I lived in the house on Mockingbird Lane. I never felt their hands on mine when they took the bottles from me, or their fingertips graze my cheeks when they wiped tears from wounds they would see reopen from time to time after they were born. I’ll tell you what though, sometimes, when my pain still gets stuck between my rib cage (We can’t blame

A seed grew inside me A seed I couldn’t hold on to And though it's in my best interest It hurts to let go of you You were the first in my garden A garden still young and true And though I'm not ready I wish I could watch you bloom Oh flower made from love I will never forget you Oh flower please forgive me For what I have done to you Young pure and beautiful With odds stacked against you Know that future flowers will grow From the garden you once knew And though they will blo

When you lose someone fundamental to your life at a very young age, you change as a person. I knew what death was before my dad died. It had been explained to me in childhood why I wouldn’t be seeing my great-grandparents anymore, and at 12 years old, you don’t know a lot about the world, but you’re old enough to know that when someone has died, they’re not coming back. That person is gone forever from this world, and while you can comfort yourself with what may come after d

Death is a new kind of birth. All of you is cemented in an opaque resin, forever memorialized as a Joan of Arc figure. A burning lady, fierce-some, untouchable. When you die, you become perfect. All of your horrific insides are scrubbed clean, filled with shiny embalming chemicals until you sparkle, made anew. You are sewn shut like a doll, fit with a peaceful sleeping face. You are no longer a writhing thing full of wrong, but a beautiful pressed flower, forever. An angel

“I trust,” said no one ever. —with a heart absent of biblical proof and a lifetime full of that very absence we don’t have time for companionship anymore, we don’t have time to buy our neighbors a meal and say “thank you, without you I would lose my sanity” billions of idiots, and everyone is dying of loneliness and searching for love, but no one wants to turn on the TV and see who has perished today at the hands of thugs, gangs, and violence— but most of all humanity and