Jonni Stevens

Habit is more dependable.

Habit will sustain you whether you're inspired or not. Habit will help you finish and polish your stories. Inspiration won't.

Habit is persistence in practice."

(4 Cyrus Carmack-Belton)

I’m runnin’.

Not because I’m fast.

Not because I think I can make it.

Because stoppin’ means dyin’.

So I run until my lungs start lyin’ to me,

tellin’ me there’s no air left,

tellin’ me this is where it ends

on this block,

in these clothes,

with nobody watchin’.

He’s still there.

I can hear him.

I can feel him.

The sound of his feet

is the loudest thing in the world.

My sneakers came off.

I didn’t stop.

I couldn’t stop.

The concrete took me next

opened up and swallowed me whole.

Fuck.

GET UP.

They’re right there.

Oh God,

please.

I put the water back.

All four bottles.

I put them back in the fridge

because I wasn’t stealin’

I was thirsty

and I put them back.

Your wife is blind.

My bag never left the door.

I never brought it inside.

I never touched anythin’.

Your son is a liar.

Search me right now.

I don’t have a gun.

I don’t have a knife.

I don’t have anythin’.

I’m 14 years old.

14.

I still have a bedtime.

I still sleep with the TV on

because the dark scares me.

You frighten the shit out of me.

This horrifies me.

I have a mother who doesn’t know where I am.

I have a front door I’m tryin’ to reach.

I have a whole life

I haven’t lived yet.

Please.

I’m beggin’ you.

I’m on the ground.

I’m not fightin’.

I’m not runnin’ anymore.

Let me keep breathin’.

STOP SHOOTIN’.

They pulled the curtain

and the world kept movin’.

I could hear it

shoes on linoleum,

voices,

laughter even,

the squeak of a cart

goin’ somewhere

that wasn’t here.

I counted the minutes

on a ceilin’ I didn’t choose.

Eyed the curtain breathe

from the air conditionin’

like it was more alive than I was.

They knew I was here.

They walked past.

Again.

And besides.

And furthermore.

I called them.

I trusted them.

I paid for them

every April,

each check,

every dollar docked

before I ever saw it

for this.

For a curtain.

For a corner.

For the privilege

of being forgotten

in a room full of people

who took an oath.

First they asked for my card.

Insurance.

Coverage.

Plan.

Like I was a transaction

before I was a person.

Like the number in their system

mattered more

than the body in their hallway.

They sedated me.

Tucked me away.

Disposed of me

like somethin’

they didn’t want to deal with

until they had to.

And I lay there

behind that curtain

listenin’ to the world go on

shoes on linoleum,

a cart goin’ somewhere,

laughter

from people who forgot

I existed

and I thought:

I came here to be saved.

This is what your taxes buy.

This is what your trust buys.

A curtain.

A corner.

A ceilin’ you count

because nobody comes.

They are paid enormous checks

to watch us suffer

and look the other way.

And we let them.

We allowed it.

We permitted them to.

Who clowned my feet were wrong

before I could walk on them.

Bent at angles the doctors

drew on whiteboards with red markers,

clinical lines tracin’ the places

where my body decided

to do things its own way.

I grew up learnin’ the word deformed

like it was just another noun

table,

chair,

foot

that doesn’t lie flat on the floor.

I learned to buy two sizes sometimes.

Learned to say I’m fine when people stared

at the pool,

at the beach,

anywhere the world asked you to go barefoot

and just be.

But here’s what nobody tells you

The ground still feels good under these feet.

Grass still finds a way to tickle my bunion

and between the crooked toes.

The earth doesn’t ask

for perfect arches.

I have walked on these feet

through hospital waitin’ rooms

that smelled like worry,

through school hallways

where other kids’ shoes squeaked

clean and confident,

through first dates and heartbreaks

and mountains I had no business climbin’

and I climbed them.

My feet remember every step.

That’s what feet do.

They don’t carry shame,

only distance.

Someone once told me the word deformed

just means away from the form

de,

from,

forma,

shape.

And I thought:

maybe I was never broken.

Maybe I was just built

further from the blueprint,

a little further from the expected,

closer to something

that had to learn its own language

for standin’.

I have stayed.

I have stood on these feet

that are mine,

only mine,

that have never walked anyone else’s road

and I am still here,

rooted,

They projected hell on Earth daily

On the radio,

TV and internet

Poisoning the technology of man’s free will

The darkness consumes,

Enslaving most of humanity

Forcing us to live by their standards

Instead of allowing the right for us to live,

We are now lost along the blinded paths

Asleep on the blue pill,

which keeps us from the truth

Starving the health of our fragile mind,

body,

and souls

Providing nourishment only to the evils of wealth and fame

In a system vandalized with sigils hidden as popular logos

Blocking and controlling us

Manipulating the conscious and subconscious parts of our psyche

With the inception of sex and violence,

they manufactured lies

They made possessions to defame that which is pure

But with the inevitable fall of the diabolical world order,

The rise comes from our beliefs in peace and love

Awakening all those who’ve lost their way

The revolution is not in our minds,

but our hearts

Faith is the genuine struggle against a man’s ego

It’s what restores our hopeful thoughts

And makes us resist the hatred

Unity can simply come if we believe in ourselves and each other


Okay, 
For real
How many times have you grabbed your phone to see if someone liked your latest 
post?
It’s kinda wild,
Right?
You end up swapping out your own values for a few seconds of “Hey, 
nice pic!” 
from unfamiliar people.
Feels like your whole vibe depends on what random folks think, 
Or how many views you rack up.
However, to remain frank,
Does any of that really matter?
You’re out here sharing your thoughts,
Your selfies,
Your whole identity,
hoping for that little spark, 
like, 
“Yo, 
You’re awesome sauce!”
But when the likes don’t roll in, 
It’s easy to feel invisible, 
like you’re just another face lost in the scroll.
Every comment, 
every click, 
It’s like you’re getting shaped by what everyone else wants.
Why twist yourself up trying to be “kool” for someone else?
Where’d your self-respect go?
Chasing online approval can make you forget what makes you, 
well, 
you.
That screen glow? 
It can drown out your own inner shine.
So, 
here’s the deal:
Take a breather.
Real connection isn’t about numbers.
It’s about being authentic, 
Yourself.
Say what you mean, 
Give a direct answer.
Don’t sweat the stats.
Remember, 
The best kind of love? 
It starts with you.


Me preguntan de dónde soy

y les digo Managua

como si fuera una disculpa,

como si la palabra necesitara explicación

pero cómo explicás

la forma en que el lago abraza la ciudad

con sus brazos inquietos,

cómo los volcanes cuidan

un lugar que ha sido quebrado

y levantado

y quebrado otra vez?

Managua no es la postal.

No es el tour ni la advertencia del gringo.

Son las manos de mi abuela

haciendo nacatamales de madrugada,

la masa todavía caliente cuando la envuelve,

cada doblez una oración

por los chavalos que se van

y los nietos que tal vez olviden.

Esta ciudad no tiene centro

el terremoto se lo llevó en el ’72,

se tragó el corazón enterito

y aprendimos a vivir

sin uno,

regados como semillas

por barrios

que crecieron salvajes y sin plan,

lindos en su resistencia,

tercos en su sobrevivencia.

Sé lo que dicen:

la capital más jodida,

la hermana olvidada,

pero no saben

cómo el sol se mete detrás del Momotombo

y vuelve todo el cielo

un perdón,

cómo los chavalos en la calle

saben tu nombre y el de tu mamá

y te fían

cuando andás mal

porque todos hemos andado mal.

Managua es el sonido del reggaetón

sonando en los carros a medianoche,

es vigorón envuelto en hojas de plátano,

es la risa de mis primos

más fuerte que cualquier revolución,

es la voz de mi tata

cuando habla de un hogar

que dejó pero nunca abandonó.

Construyeron una catedral nueva

pero todavía visitamos las ruinas de la vieja,

porque entendemos

que las cosas quebradas pueden ser sagradas,

que lo que queda

a veces es más honesto

que lo que se reconstruye.

Entonces cuando me preguntan de dónde soy

digo Managua,

Nicaragua

como un reto ahora,

como una carta de amor,

como el nombre

de todo lo que cargo

el calor,

el polvo,

el berrinche,

la forma en que nos aferramos

a lo que es nuestro

aunque el mundo

nos diga que lo soltemos.

Managua:

corazón terco,

sinfonía sin terminar,

I know these streets.

Know the cracks in the sidewalk by Trumbull Park Homes

Know which porch lights mean “welcome home, baby,”

See the sound of Mommy’s breathin’ when she’s tired

that wheeze that lives in her chest like a warning,

sickle cell stealin’ oxygen like a stick-up kid in her own blood.

Know my brother—Devon’s laugh.

The way it bounces off brick buildings,

How he walks with his hands in his pockets

Like he’s carryin’ the whole world gently.

But Idk this.

Don’t know the sound of fists on flesh that shares my name,

Don’t know why home became a huntin’ ground,

Why are blk hands reachin’ for blk throats

We’re supposed to be each other’s shelter,

not one another’s hurricane.

Mommy’s on the ground and her body.

Jesus, her frame that already fights itself every single day,

Cells are shaped wrong, blood that clots and screams

her body that taught me strength

is foldin’ under feet that look like mine.

Devon tryna shield her,

9-year-old and tryin’ to be a man,

strugglin’ to be a wall,

And I’m frozen.

Ten feet away with my backpack still on,

mouth open like a door with no words inside.

We walk this same route every day.

We smile at familiar faces.

We are the exact skin,

With similar survival,

With identical stories of makin’ it home safe.

So why are we killin’ each other

On the very streets that already don’t love us?

My elders say it takes a town.

But what happens when the community forgets

that we’re supposed to raise each other,

not raze one another?

What happens when the hands that should hold

Become the needles that strike?

I watch Mommy curl around her pain,

watch her protect her ribs where the cells are sickled,

where every breath is already borrowed time,

and someone’s child.

Another person’s baby whom somebody loves

is making it harder for her to breathe.

And I want to scream:

Don’t you know we’re already dyin’ enough?

Don’t you know the cooked world is heavy enough

Without us addin’ weight to each other’s backs?

My voice finally breaks free

raw and crackin’ like thunder

and perhaps the volume is sufficient,

Maybe it’s important to remind them

That we’re human,

That Mommy is somebody’s mother,

That my brother is somebody’s son,

That we all belong to one another.

The fists stop.

The stomps step back.

Eyes meet eyes and perhaps

Just maybe

They remember.

But the damage done doesn’t undo itself.

Mommy’s still in the dirt.

breathin’ shallow,

And home feels 4 hunnid miles away

even though our door is right there,

even though we can see our porch from here.

I help Mommy up.

Devon’s lip is bleedin’.

We limp the last block like broken toys,

And I wonder what kind of war this is

Where we’re all on the same side

But keep forgettin’.

I wonder when we’ll remember

that every blk child who makes it home

It is a victory for all of us,

That Mommy’s breath matters,

That my brother’s safety matters,

That our hood should stand for neighbor,

Should mean we’re in this together.

I know these streets.

But tonight, I’m learnin’ them different.

Learnin’ that knowin’ a place

And being safe in it

They are two distinct things.

Findin’ out that we must choose

every single day

To be one another’s keepers,

not each other’s burdens.

Discoverin’ that home isn’t just a place.

It’s a promise we make

To protect one another,

To see each other,

To remember that we are worthy

of gentleness,

especially from our own.

And tonight,

as Mommy takes her medicine,

As Devon holds ice on his face,

As I finally cried in my bedroom with the door and window locked,

I’m prayin’ we all remember tomorrow.

I’m prayin’ we choose each other.

I’m beggin’ we make it home

Tiny seed stays safe and sound,

Tucked beneath the cozy ground.

Raindrops wash the soil away,

Helpin’ it grow strong each day!

Small bird up in the tree,

Keeps its nest so fresh and pristine.

Fluffs its feathers, shakes them bright,

Ready for a healthy flight!

Little Bear knows when to rest,

Comfy caves are always best.

When the seasons change around,

Támara Weathers is a plump Nicaraguan teen with sharp eyes, a soft heart, and a mouth that sometimes gets her in trouble. She walks through the halls of Bayside High School like she’s wearing invisible armor. Thrifted boots scuffed from kicking curbs. Oversized hoodies like a shield. Headphones always in. Music isn’t just background noise for her. It’s survival.

She’s the kind of girl who pretends she doesn’t care but feels everything like static under her skin. Her anxiety comes in tight knots in her stomach, in biting her nails raw, in late-night journaling she’ll never let anyone read.

Támara loves hard. Her friends. Her music. Her city. Even when it doesn’t love her back the way she wants. There’s resilience in her softness. Fire in her quiet. She’s haunted by what’s hurt her, but she carries hope like a secret weapon tucked in her pocket.

Girls like her don’t usually get to be the main character. But in If The Moonlight Glows. She is.