Voices -- The Women's College Magazine at Santa Monica College

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Letter from the Editor



Laila Kearney

I looked out the bright seven a.m. sun-lit window
allotting views of freeway bypasses and angry,
middle-age early-bird bar hopefuls, still with
sleep-filled eyes, stumbling their dingy fermented
watering holes to slowly drown.
A slow, thick feeling of envy rolled down my throat,
choking me and pushing hot tears of acid rain.
I wanted to be them.
I was numb and disillusioned from too many broken
bottles of shattered innocence spread thin concrete
roads leading away from a now ephemeral dream of
purity. The cyclic illusion of attainable happiness
had ended. I finally stopped trying to catch those
butterflies with a hole in my net.
My soul had been anesthetized and left unconscious but
will inevitably wake one day to the burning truth and
naked confrontation of every suppressed moments past
I was numb, but they were dead.
And I wanted to be them.
To float cold alongside my sisters in the dark bloody
sea of bloated diseased fish.







The Women’s College Magazine at Santa Monica College
Copyright 2003 Santa Monica College