Survivor Story
I and Love and You
The Avett Brothers came on my shuffle,
and I remembered
when you let me rest
on your heightened shoulders
damp living room,
limbs pooling.
I am not yet ripened,
grape tomatoes resting
on your kitchen island;
you said
the world would
protect me, still.
When I called you dad,
you managed to remind me,
Fathers aren't so forgiving, but
I can still taste the mole
near your top lip,
as you grazed mine,
calloused fingers
rimming my waistband,
mouth wide in amusement,
I can’t help thinking
aging will keep me
sane.
Life leaves me weary
because you were so
weary, but would you still taste me
now, or was I only tender
because I was seventeen?
A dry martini, two cocktail onions
this is how you kept me.
The world keeps producing me cold.
- Liana Gonzales, she/her
Liana Gonzales (she/her) is an emerging writer based in Austin, Texas, where she lives with her fiancé, three cats and dog. Originally from San Antonio, her works are deeply influenced by her Hispanic heritage and her experiences as a millennial woman. She often explores themes of growth, identity, and relationships, incorporating personal anecdotes that reflect on navigating an often unforgiving yet beautiful world.
