Have You Found the You in You?

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The poster on the subway asks

and I don’t have an answer.

When I was pink-cheeked

in the last fall breeze, I sat on the steps of the library

and tried to understand why people continue

when trees are reborn in color.

flailing mis108_1

The night before was not the first time

I’ve bit into riddled pits—at 11 years old

my mother abandoned me

with the uneaten head of a cow—

and resort to self-cannibalism.

I devour my heart once each day.

Would you prefer I swallow my eyes?
I tried, but it didn’t prevent seeing


the poster still mocking—

is it directed at me?

Fuck it. I won’t list my sins out loud.

I prefer walking around New York

in a vague haze, trying

to write myself out of buildings

that softly ache for want of being torn down.


The construction never stops here

and I didn’t ask to be handed a hammer and nails.

Remember the January I lay on the track?
Victims formed a human barrier

the train couldn’t get through.


I’m not allowed to write

how our parents fuck us up—

my father calls this loyalty.

He demands respect I don’t give anyone

who grows mushrooms in their beard.

The above is inaccurate in multiple ways

and I envy the poets put in mental hospitals,

who fought the courage to pull the trigger.


by D.S. Kovacs  |    Artwork by  by Janelle Rainer +  Michael Dallacosta

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D.S. Kovacs

D.S. Kovacs is a second-year MFA student at NYU and a Harvard University graduate. She grew up in the mountains of Arkansas, which has informed her creative aesthetic. She currently lives in Astoria, Queens, where she spends her days writing and working in marketing.