Rachel Joy

United States

Published Work

Open Prompt

Bus Seat

Beautiful woman, black hair that reached her hips
Elderly man, his cane making click clack sounds against the floor
Nervous young man, smacking gum between his lips
Little girl, who almost got her pigtail stuck in the door
Couple in love, holding hands and sharing smiles
A hipster’s Doc Martin’s tap tap, tap tap
Sweaty marathon runner, just finished 20 miles
Angry woman, dog panting in her lap
A vegan preaching how you shouldn’t eat meat
And they all chose me, as their bus seat!

The Things They Carried

coming out

he carried a chest with him everywhere he went
his husband's name
his wedding album
all the secrets he's been keeping

one day his mom will find out
and the chest will empty
for all the world to see



Their dark thick scraggly hair fell into perfect ringlets upon their shoulders. Their eyes had a glow that would put the Northern Lights to shame. Their aura so fierce it could make grown men feel like children 


you kiss the scars 
you wipe away the tears

you can’t stay in bed forever

you cry where no one can see you
you scream in the shower where no one can hear you

why can’ t you just be happy

you could hear a pin drop inside your soul
pain is how you remember that you are alive

Paint Swatch

3 am

3 am is the color of bad decisions 
drunk dials
meaningless sex

3am is the color of deep thoughts
incandescent dreams
passionate love 


Final Goodbye

I'll never forget the taste of her plumb-colored Burt's Bees chapstick, and they way the tips of her split ends made my back itch. When I close my eyes I still see the way her hips swayed and her heels clicked as she walked away for the last time. 

writer's block

I lack inspiration
it’s your fault
give me something to write about
no more clichés about the tide of the ocean 
no more metaphors comparing you to planets and galaxies
give me something real
as real as my desire to smash the patriarchy 

I lack inspiration
it’s your fault
give me something to write about
I can't give in to a false sense of being cultured 
I don’t want to watch a documentary about the history of modern art 
I know nothing about politics other than Trump is an asshole 
I think horoscopes and greek mythology are twitter fads
There are only so many times I can lie for the sake of art 

I lack inspiration
It’s your fault
Give me something to write about
There are only a finite amount of natural disasters I can romanticize
You taught me why they name hurricanes after people
You drowned me with a tsunami of affection
Now I’m all out of ideas