Hi! My name is Clara and I am a 16 year old living in Los Angeles. I love writing prose and poetry! Here are a couple of my pieces.

Like a release

I pretend to have read Vonnegut.
There, in the spirit of the only good writing is the brutally honest kind,
is my confession.

Fake laughter fake laughter fake laughter. Toxins staying in. There is no setup. The punchline is the jumpscare waiting to happen. I’m trying I’m trying so hard I promise. Suzan-Lori Parks said laughter is like throwing up, like a release. I feel like throwing up when I try so hard to laugh. Fake laughter fake laughter fake laughter. I sneeze and remain unblessed. I am not the best and quite possibly the worst. But I think it’s good to be bad at this. If I have to trade a poem for a piece of truth I’ll do it. I’ll give every word away.

Careful applause, given because it has to be. I run.

The problem is that the more you like yourself the less funny you are. You don’t have a hunger and you don’t have a reason. I don’t consider myself very funny but I do hate myself and I think it helps. Is this maxim true? It is not. However, I really think it might be. Two truths are always true and in fact the minimum number. Maxim is a word I’ve been pretending to know a lot lately. I use it almost every day.

I’m trying I’m trying I’m trying so hard. There is nothing but dead silence and fake laughter.

I don’t know who the fuck Suzan Lori-Parks is or who she thinks she is to be able to tell me how throwing up feels. And yesterday I pretended to have read Vonnegut again. Last-name basis. I called his book only Slaughterhouse. I think it worked.

It is 11:11, and now it is 11:12, and I don’t know what I want or believe in, except for real laughter.

Fake laughter fake laughter fake laughter.

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bleeding hot sweat

Bleeding hot sweat East Village and I’m scared. I went on a walk next to the Hudson River but there was construction. So I guess I went on a walk by a construction site. Chemicals loud noises bright yellow cars black and white photos. Dark from white, blur, shift. I took a nap. I ate a pancake. Sticky sweet silence. Nauseous enough to be tired. Anticipation redhot enough to burn. Maybe I shouldn’t ruminate. Wondering in the dark how movies end. Everyone is tired and no one will nap. No one will talk about it. Everyone is faking this.