re

joyce

re

joyce

My name is Joyce, and I’m the writing editor of The Muse. This year is my senior year of high school and my second year in The Muse.

I joined LitMag because I wanted to take a class that wasn’t necessary for graduation/an AP/for the express purpose of making my college app unbelievably, irresistibly beautiful. In other (more formal) words, I wanted to take a class that would be less rigidly academic and have more room for creativity & opportunity to “play around”, in a sense.

My goals for this class are to improve my writing & art skills and to have a better understanding of the Adobe tools :)

insert funny blurb/quote here

a biblically accurate artistic rendition of joyce (me)

me, drawn by me (artistic liberties taken)

FAQs

“frequently” asked questions

  • Joyce.

    • reading (I say this habitually but the amount of time I ACTUALLY spend reading is…)

    • (not) sleeping

    • trawling through Wikipedia

    • I spend a very modern-teenager amount of time on my phone but that’s a bit too sad to be a hobby

  • One (1): I’ve lived in Massachusetts, California, Vermont, and Georgia.

    Two (2): I used to read a LOT, but I pretty much stopped around middle school. I’ve been trying to regain the habit but unfortunately, I am (to quote) very, very fussy when it comes to media and I have an irrational disdain for certain tropes (romance), so progress has been slow, to say the least.

    Three (3):

  • Iceberg lettuce (I have many layers but all of them are bland & watery & the same)

me, NOT drawn by me

Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!

cyclical rot

the seeds are still unsweet three days later—teeth sour, 
brittle and fragile. the side of my cheek hurts with that dull 
thrumming ache of decay. the skin on my lip is dead, 
curving up, smiling. i think of watermelon grins seed-flecked
and summery; sunshine tangerine peels rotting sickly sweet 
like my vacations of seasonal joy: youth, spring, and 
recklessness, true as gymnasium planetariums. the worms
eat their way into the flooring—summer crumbles away and 
now it is time for me to fall into the ground; gone for the long
sleep. the canned fruits go and all that is left is mossy 
white and droplets of red, the six-month promise. the pomegranate
is sweet and it curdles milk. my mouth stings with rot.

Haute Couture

Come fast and come quick
(rolling down the hill ‘til you’re sick).
Jack and Jill prance down a hill:
Take your cracked-open head and fill
it up: eat more, eat fast, eat because it won’t last. 
Time for a rematch, a remake;
on demand grab-and-go, white-rabbit quick.
(‘til you’re sick).

This is a waste
of fine taste.

favorite poems?

A person’s likes and dislikes can tell you a lot about them. Hopefully what you learn about me is positive.

I recognize that this sounds like an assigned reading list but (unfortunately?) such is my taste

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