Five poems
Jada Gentry
You Never
you never told me i’d carry it,
that it would press into the marrow of me.
staining the hidden corners of my skin,
dark as wine spilled on silk, seeping through–
darkening even what you swore i’d forget.
you never said my body would remember—
that it would live in the hollows of my bones,
quiet as dust, drifting down,
sinking deep, settling slow.
you never explained the shape of shame—
how it digs sharply into brittle ribs,
threading through ribs like shards no one else can see.
you never told me trust could snap
in a single breath, like a fragile stem,
shattering like glass in my hands,
as if they’d never belonged to me.
you never warned me about voices—
the way they’d return, years later, uninvited,
how familiar words would press around my throat,
tight as a knotted rope, how laughter
could twist in my chest until it stuck,
and the light in the room felt swallowed whole.
you never said fear could slip into warmth,
turning love into something razor-thin,
where closeness could feel like the edge
of a blade pressed slow,
and the softest touch demands surrender.
you never told me healing would leave scars,
that these scars would pulse in shadows, in hidden places,
a quiet throb, reminding me always
that i’d carry this weight alone—
like a stone resting in my pocket,
unforgiving, hard as bone.
crACKed Mirror
a mirror leans in the hallway,
its crack running like a vein
through your reflection–
your face fractured,
a thousand incomplete selves staring back,
each one a glimpse of who you could’ve been.
the glass hums
with the weight of night air,
a chill creeping like slow shadows
through the house’s bones.
you think about fractures,
how they come in silence,
how things don’t break all at once—
but over time, unnoticed,
until the damage is done.
each crack a map of choices,
paths you walked away from,
places you never returned to.
the house feels older.
more haunted by what it holds in its walls—
unspoken words, unfinished dreams,
and the echoes of all those past versions of you.
and then, you wonder if the cracks are not flaws,
but openings— small ruptures in the fabric of time
leading to something beyond you.
what if these fractures are the universe’s way
of letting light slip through?
maybe we’re meant to be unfinished,
the night outside deepens,
stars like tiny cracks in the sky—
not broken but part of a greater design.
The Hands that Never Held
he is a phantom etched in dust,
a silhouette smeared across the years,
the man i’ve never met.
i catch him in the slant of my jaw,
the quiet pull of my brow–
a ghost inked into my face,
an inheritance carved
by the knife of his absence.
his shadow stretches wide,
pooling in corners
he never touched,
filling rooms
with a name spoken once,
then buried beneath silence.
what did his hands look like?
were they calloused,
weathered by work he never finished?
did they carry the heft of promises
or slip free,
fingers splayed,
before anything took root?
i imagine them scared, restless–
palms turned toward the horizon,
always reaching for a life
just out of grasp.
his absence hums low in my chest,
an ache like static,
woven into the marrow of my ribs.
what was his voice like?
did it crumble like brittle leaves
when he said goodbye,
or was it smooth,
unchanging,
like the wind that bends trees
without regret?
he left,
but his leaving stayed–
a hollow carved into my days,
a space where echoes live.
and yet,
he lingers in the gaps,
a ghost in the doorway,
reminding me of the weight
of the things he chose
to walk away from.
Fractured Feasts
the table sagged beneath the feast–
turkey sprawling, pies glinting like stolen jewels,
cranberries bleeding red into cut-glass bowls.
gravy wove steam into the air,
thick as the lies braided into our smiles.
laughter cracked like dry kindling,
jokes sharp as the carving knife’s edge.
“like mother, like daughter,” they sneered,
their words pricking at shadows too familiar,
addiction etched into the marrow of our names.
a cousin leaned in close, breath warm and sour:
“got any grass?”
eyes darted, the room broke into knowing chuckles,
their amusement another iron in the cage of my ribs.
shame whispered, coiled tight,
its weight tugging me further into my chair.
“pass the rolls,” someone barked,
the words flung like stones.
their glances, quick and cutting,
traced my skin like a map they didn’t want to read,
my color the punchline in a language i didn’t choose.
the camera’s click sliced the air,
freezing us mid-performance:
the turkey’s steam swirling,
the knife gleaming mid-slice,
my smile breaking, halfway to grief.
they framed it later, set it on the mantle,
a monument to what couldn’t be spoken,
to an ache sealed beneath polished glass.
Broken Promises
she’s always almost there— a breath away from clean,
from promises whispered late at night,
fingers tracing veins like paths on a map,
between burnt spoons and the chill
of empty, made-up beds.
she tells me she’s trying,
but i see the spiral in her eyes,
the weight of men who come and go,
each one heavier than the last.
they leave fingerprints on her skin,
stains that no shower can scrub away.
she chases them like shadows,
as if they hold some cure
for the hollowness in her bones,
for all the spaces we couldn’t fill.
i watch her fall in love with the same lie,
over and over again—
a carousel of broken men,
spinning faster than her resolve.
she reaches for their shadows, not for us,
leaving us stranded in the blur
of her scattered dreams,
and the ash of her lost intentions.
we are her children, voices calling her back,
lost beneath the weight of her promise–
“just one more time, last time,” she swears,
but i’ve watched those words dissolve
like pills pressed to her lips,
and stories she can’t finish telling.
i wonder if she sees us,
standing on the edge of
her half-kept promises,
i wonder if she knows we’re here,
waiting, fingers crossed,
for the pieces she leaves behind.
Jada Gentry is a graduating senior pursuing dual majors in Digital Marketing and Business Administration with minors in Psychology, Graphic Design, Photography, and Studio Art. Alongside her academic focus, she completed multiple creative writing courses, refining her voice through poetry and storytelling. After graduation, she will work as a social media manager and coach club volleyball. This is her first poetry publication.