Joy Edwards is a senior double-majoring in Religion and Creative Writing (Poetry Capstone), with a minor in Publishing and Printing Arts. Joy is rather melancholy in nature, and may have been ironically named.
Rust on the Key
My cursive has been described as elegant although few readers are capable of deciphering it. What I wanted was ugly. Ink bleeds. Because a and o are nearly identical, my high school diploma called me Jay instead of Joy. For years my capital G looked more like D, so Gay after day, I wrote without trying to read. Now I have locked even myself out from the privacy of my childhood. In this half-secret script I laid to rest prayers, which were confessions of doubt and desires I dared not speak. I have to laugh at the old notebook I found today, and the line where I should have written God but it looked like Dad.
You are cleaning me: a piece of greenware you expect to crack in the kiln. I am carved by you: a dull blade meant to scrape black earth out from fingernails. No matter if I want to be earthy. Keep scraping smooth layer up from layer and I will lie still saying you will not breach my thin brittle rind.