Seventeen
when i was seventeen, i lost my breath in the basement of a party and spent a good part of winter catching it. snuck out of class, lingering in that sunlit corner on the third floor. waited outside stores, non-suspect in my immigrant inconspicuousness. when i was seventeen, i took the scenic routes and came to school late, ran out in the night all dizzy and starlit, painted poems on train tracks and climbed warehouse mountains just to breathe in the abandoned air. watching the world fall apart, i jumped, pressing against screaming shitheads, hitting and being hit so hard i felt like i couldn’t breathe. when i was seventeen, i pretended i knew how to dance, pretended that to dance was to sway beatlessly on my roof after midnight, seen only by the night sky and the catholic church. when i was seventeen, i cried about silly things and cared about nothing. screamed at my mother and told her everything. avoided the mirror and spent hours looking at myself. loved nothing. loved everything.
Eva is a high school senior, an INFP, a Slytherin, and, among other things, a poet. Growing up in Russia in a family of political dissidents, she struggled with her parents' and peers' expectations. Now, a refugee in Chicago, she has learned to let go (a little bit) and notice the beauty in the world. And write about it. She is passionate about the Beatnik movement, the 1920s, electoral politics, contemporary art, and people-watching. She also occasionally exists on instagram at @evagelmann.