Labyrinth 2012 by ASWWU

Labyrinth 2012 Beyond the body

Address to the Reader Thank you so much for taking the time to interact with this year’s Labyrinth journal. Historically and presently, our journal has acted as a vehicle for movement past ideological binaries towards unquestionable equality. This is a place for duality deflation and identity intersection. Most importantly, the Labyrinth journal is an outlet for personal celebration. If we see human life as an interconnected web, we can understand that the issues of one group are problems affecting us all. Labyrinth is a site for empowerment through mutual understanding and empathy. Simultaneously, this journal functions as a place that exists to oppose situations where people have felt silenced, ashamed, and cast aside. Our hope at the Associated Student’s Women’s Center is that this journal will strike a chord for every person who encounters it. We have carefully selected artwork that we hope will speak to you, empower you, and bring you closer to those who surround you. There are so many people that I need to thank—this journal is literally a product of all the help that went into creating it. Thank you to: The Residence Hall Association, whose gracious funding has caused this year’s journal to have pages in color for the first time in Labyrinth history! If you enjoy the cover art and motifs throughout this journal, you have Adam Volkman and the AS Publicity Center to thank. Also, if you went to the VU Gallery exhibition of Labyrinth artwork, Ashley Hollender was basically the mind behind that entire show. Additionally, the Resource and Outreach Programs, specifically Chris Chatburn and Lisa Rosenburg, were wonderful sources of inspiration and motivation when I needed a push in the right direction. Finally, to the AS Women’s Center, especially our fearless leader, Kimberly Absher, and all of the people who utilized our office, you are the driving force behind this publication. Labyrinth was created and implemented by Women’s Center volunteers back in the late 1970’s. Their spirit, although anonymous, has carried through generations to bring this journal to you today. To every artist: whether you were accepted into the journal or not, thank you for your bravery. You have used your talent to align with the fight for social betterment. In my humble opinion, that is the most powerful, productive, and inspirational action any person can make.

I hope that you find answers in this journal—as it was created for you. Remember that the Women’s Center is always there if you want to take part in social action, or if you ever need someone who cares to listen to you. Whatever sparked your interest and led you to Labyrinth is profound—remember that as you read this.

Celebrate yourself,

Taneum Bambrick Labyrinth Editor, 2012

You Are Not Wrong Maureen Armstrong

This is for the teenage boys who live in fear of telling their fathers who they are. For the girls who brainwash themselves into becoming who theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re told they should be. Waifish, feminine, seductive, yet virginal, straight blonde hair, charcoal lined eyes. This is for the men who marry their high school sweethearts because they think itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s their only option, and for the women who fall for it. A big house with a red door, a tire swing, perfect azalea bushes, an expensive silk sofa. This is for the girls who are told they are boys and for the boys who pretend to be the girls their parents raised them to be. For the men and women whose skin rips, as they struggle to break free from bodies that have never quite felt like theirs. This is for everyone who has been told their love is an abomination. For every kid who feigns sickness to stay home, to dodge the names, the hits, the threats, to protect themselves for one more day. This is for the queers and for the queens, the bull dykes and the lipstick lesbians. Your life is not a sin. You are not wrong. Do not hide and never apologize. Stand up and shout your love at the world. Someday soon, it will listen.

Eithnu nal nan sandai po-than (சரஸ்வதி சபதம) Saraswati Noel

How do you express the raw feelings when someone else takes control of your body, of the violation, the abuse? I am six, my lilac flower dress falls gently just below my knees. The abuse, the molestation and rape that haunts me for years is just about to begin yet my fragile little mind cannot comprehend it. My seventeen year old cousin greedily watches me as I play alone in the room. He is my protector, my unay. He comes over placing his hand upon my knee lifting my dress ever so slightly. “Saraswati, let’s play a game”. He does not ask he just does. There are no questions, no telling because that is not allowed in this game. First it is just his fingers that defile my precious little body. But as painful hours turn into days, and days turn into weeks, and weeks turn into months, and those months turn into years, I am left with a stolen virginity and a haunting memory of a blood soaked lilac flower dress. I use imagery to describe my exploitation because it is easier than facing the painful emotion shoved into my innocent mind. I still cannot bear to feel my experience; I can only process the images. This is why I fight. Eithnu nal nan sandai po-than (சரஸ்வதி சபதம). I fight for my childhood and those whose childhood were ripped away. I am 13, sitting on a bench, my “friend” effortlessly forces my legs apart and laughs in my face” Sara, you would be easy to rape, you should really do something about that.” This is why I fight. Eithnu nal nan sandai po-than (சரஸ்வதி சபதம). I fight against any blame placed on the victim. My mom is 16, her life hangs delicately by a thread. She is left to die on a beach after being brutally raped by her classmate. He broke a glass coke bottle and forced her to the ground. He stabbed and sliced her because he got off on her blood, her screams. This is why I fight. Eithnu nal nan sandai po-than (சரஸ்வதி சபதம). I fight for our safety. I fight for my mama. I am forced to be passive because I am terrified of the judgment that will be passed on my race, my people. I silence myself to protect my culture from the racism embedded in society. Rape and colonization is all our brown

bodies know from the repeating history of oppression. I am done being your stereotype of a meek woman of color. This is why I fight. Eithnu nal nan sandai po-than (சரஸ்வதி சபதம). I fight for my voice. Just because I am an immigrant, a brown woman, that does not mean I am an exotic piece of ass to grab to touch to be your property. Sexually objectifying me doesn’t make you diverse. Just because my first language isn’t English doesn’t mean I am dumb, stupid and can’t stand up to your bull-shit patriarchal ways. I am not an object. I am not a whore, a slut or whatever label you use to justify raping me. I was not asking for it my mother was not asking for it. My silence does not mean my consent. This is why I fight and will continue to fight. Eithnu nal nan sandai po-than (சரஸ்வதி சபதம)

Untitled

Briana Fitzpatrick

A fistful of my long curly hair is held taught in a pale peach hand. My neck pulled back, chin jutting to the ceiling, eyes open, breathing hard. I dare not move because that would only prolong the wait until my release. The steamy warm breath hits my neck as the lips close around my weak spot. My body reacts without my permission, moving my neck into the source of this sinful pleasure begging for more. The lips move down to my hip where little nibbles cause me to gyrate and press my groin towards heaven pleading for release. Instead, a steady hand pushes my rebellious hips down and a mischievous smirk gently reminds me that I must be patient. That smile disappears between my legs and only the top of dark hair is visible. I catch my breath about to scream with anticipation and then the ABC’s come. Upper and lowercase all while I’m made to hold conversation with this tongue that has me on the verge of ecstasy. I never knew the ABC’s could be so cruel. My hands grip my comforter, my hips thrust hard and my voice goes silent, but the tongue encourages me “Not yet,” as the same hand pushes my body slowly back to Earth. This continues until the hand disappears and then a laugh escapes from the mouth as if to say “Are you ready for this?” right before a glorious pressure takes over my vulva and I can’t control my hips any longer. They move with the swirls and flicks of the tongue until it plunges deep into me sucking with and intensity that makes me leave my mind and everything go fuzzy. We continue like this until my body lies limp and I breathe out “stop”. Chuckling the mouth emerges from in between my shaking legs and gives me the wettest kiss I’ve ever had. As we cuddle, a heavy head lying satisfied on my chest, the mouth asks through a smile that is hard not to hear, “So do girls do it better?”

Release 1 Jenna Knell

Dear America Sara Richards

You can be anything you want. Really, can I? Or is that just another one of your lies you tell to us as we are young and moldable? Santa wasn’t real, neither was the tooth fairy. So can I trust you when you tell me I can be anything I put my mind to? As someone who is pretty grounded, although a realistic dreamer, I found out what I want to be. Nothing crazy like a superhero with powers, a fairy, or mermaid, I want to be a soldier. I want to be a solider of the United States Army. I had a dream that was realistic, so I put my trust in your magical words of “you can be anything you want.” However, your words were not strong enough, it was just another one of your lies you told to me while I was still young and moldable. How can something that made me who I am stop me from being what I want to be? Although I am still alive, can I say my attempts were successful? You’re only allowed four scars. But… I have 36 visible ones… That’s an automatic disqualification ma’am. Mental problems, ya know? We can’t have that here. No… I don’t know. I was told I could be anything I wanted… The scars of my past are now a wall blocking my future. If you knew the things that caused these what are now scars on my body you would have no doubt that I am stronger than the average American soldier. You would have no doubt that I can carry on with heavy emotional burdens, past assaults, physical pain, and verbal abuse like nothing is wrong. That I am one of the few that will allow you to mind fuck and manipulate me without a reason and love you like you’re doing nothing wrong. 14

That I can pull my weak beaten body off the ground with my fellow soldier over my shoulder ready to do it all again if need be. But, dear American, youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll regret not getting me when you had the chance because, I am not only Army Strong, I am the strongest woman youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll never get.

For Emily

Sara Purington

You donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have to shake your head anymore Emily. With those eyes darkened by everything you never deserved. It never should have happened. You would flop your small self down on my lap and lay there Watching as the world goes by Already exhausted in your tiny body. Embrace. I wish I could give you pieces of my skin Patchwork your skin back together So you wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t feel the pain anymore Emily. Those afternoons together under the flame tree in the warm sun. You wanted to touch every leaf As I lifted you up to grab the waxy greens You hold your little hands out and reach, stretching each finger out to grasp. Those moments when the world would catch your eye. Empower. Will you remember what happened Emily Or will the reminiscence simply be a scratching in the back of your brain. A return to innocence. An enigma. In a time when everything was taken from you. In a time when you should be laughing and learning. Trying to walk I would hold your hand Tottering on those tiny feet Its hard to walk with the world on your shoulders. I thought if I held you a little bit longer it would all go away

But you still look at me with those sad eyes. You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders Remember that the world is yours Emily. Emerge Emily.

Dissection 1 & 2 Allison Avery

Corey

Keith Daniel 20

More to Sex

Daniel Espinoza-Gonzalez

I, I like… … …sex. Sex, feels good to me, and hopefully, to her too. and, you know, in whichever way you go, you know, whatever you’re, interested in, that’s cool! I’m accepting! Whatever floats your boat…? It’s cool.

This is difficult. Because to me, there’s so much more to sex than just the action, the ins and outs, EVEN THOUGH that’s great too! Don’t get me wrong! There’s just more in it for me. I enjoy someone who can gain a rise out of me based on our interactions, our communication, the way we speak to one another. Because to me, there’s so much more to sex. I’m trying to find a mind that can POP the cherry of my innocence or maybe IGNORANCE or maybe BURST my mind with the sensations of CRITICAL THINKING 21

I want my mind to work as the muscle it is meant to be and have a mental BONER each time she JERKS me off to some new knowledge, a new point of view, a new way of thinking, a perspective I haven’t even ERECTED I mean SELECTED, to think about! Because to me, there’s so much more to sex! Especially whenever our tongues decide to battle it out, now, I ain’t talkin about that saliva swappin dripping of gooeyness that makes out lips wet, Naw! I’d rather get her wet by having her eyes, stare, WIDE-EYED, without blinking, at my mouth, flexing the pronunciation of my words into an IDEA, into a PERSPECTIVE perhaps SHE hasn’t even thought of! Moving my tongue a mile a minute trying to put my thoughts into words before they EJECT out of my mind, like: When was the last time you had a guy pay closer attention to the direction your mind enjoys to travel in instead of the size bra you wear, or whether he was kind enough to open the door to his passenger’s seat for ya, or walk on the side of the street the cars are passing by, or save you the last bite of his meal? A guy who understands you’re an independent woman and don’t need NO MAN to put you on such a PEDISTLE but who does it out of the kindness of his heart instead of thinking when he can start 22

FUCKING you. No! Who would rather listen to words escaping your mouth than thinking when he can start heading SOUTH, I mean I’m just sayin! and then finally, she blinks! and a wet sensation fills her eyes so that they ain’t so dry anymore. Yea, that’s how I’d like to get her wet. I’d like her to return the favor so I could savor the manner in which she speaks, the phonology in which she strings together her words, the methodology of her logic, her mind is a body, within itself and I’d like to penetrate the glory between her, th—oughts! Because, to me, there’s so much more to sex, SO MUCH MORE TO SEX, when she’s a challenge, a-a-and, once again, please don’t jump to conclusions. I don’t mean a challenge as in, hard to get, or playing hard to get, neither as a trophy that must be WON and displayed to all the homies! HELL NAW! I want a challenge as in, someone who can contest the opinions and beliefs my gigantic brain produces each day! And not simply swallow them but SPIT BACK some imposing feedback, make me question every angle and educate me on the knowledge that I lack Because to me, there’s so much more to sex, than the ins and outs, 23

the moans and scratches down my back, the nibbles here and there, and the positions we like to explore, More than the whispers in my ear for “deeper” and “harder” cuz, you and I, we can do that all night! Easy! Get real durty like, if you like! BUT, I’d rather think with my MIND instead of my DICK Because to me, there’s so much more to SEX, and if YOU can engage me in the foreplay of CRITICAL THINKING Realizing you stimulate more in me than I’ve ever experienced before, Than, with my entire Baby, I am ALL yours.

body invested

Marlene Laurel Kam

Nadia

Laurel Kam

Ironing Board Danny Canham

Call me male, but tell me, where do you see a stamp? Forty-four cents doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even begin to cover this body, see there is an FE iron deficiency in every phallic representation. Iron, we say it is hard and metallic, material of swords to swallow, but the swords I see with sharpest wit are all beaten and battered, flattened under the weight of institutional hammers. M for male. Mountain. Marshal. Monster Murder. But there are so many other words that also begin with M. Mother, Maker, Mentor, Me. Call me male, but can you not see the dancing titan, domestic goddess, doting father and warrior woman standing side by side behind these eyes? Gender bender, throw these expressions into the heart of a blender Mend yourself of the deep cut divisions holding you back. Call me male, No, donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t. Call me song. Call me poetry. Call me dance. Call me male and you pay the postage to send me to the bootcamp binding of back and forth. I am male. Chain mail. Armor uplifting and protecting. This is not a rejection. The masculine swords serve their place. This is me being flexible, reworking this male ideology into one more sheath taking you in rather than cutting you down. Learn from this. Call me male, but donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t you dare assume to know what that means.

What Body Cade Schmidt

Magnum Opus Cade Schmidt

Magnum big frame revolver revolves through brain matter resolving with big-bore caliber & Jackson Pollock visits your bedroom wall Have you replaced your flesh that your peers bit off by the pound? have the desert clouds returned the tears absorbed by your pillow? did the .45 caliber long colt seasoned with your brains obliterate their ignorance? Did the magnum big frame revolver complete your opus? Do you feel better now? well, I know you do because the notion of revenge in a gun barrel is like staring at your geometry homework and dreaming about pussy But even as you contort hexagons & triangles none of them would ever fuck you You, my fifteen-year-old self you will never put down the magnum BFR you will never overcome your fear of razors you will always flinch at the ink of a red pen you will let coats of shame grow over the ruins you ruined

and you will never speak of this or forget it but you’ll pretend to You’ll forsake the magnet imbedded in your brain it swells as your heart sinks into your intestines tugging the .45 caliber closer to your temple But someday not quite soon a sunset of roses will swallow you whole leaving behind the shadow of Hercules

This won’t be one of your math homework delusions those who choose to look in your direction might actually see you they might take more than notice that you are more than your body gives you But your heart is growing heavier the magnet is swelling pressing your brains against the walls of your skull the tip of the long colt kisses your sweat you can barely breathe & it’s beautiful your opus is becoming what you are worth You are worth the denial your boyhood and its replacement with genderfuckhood you are worth every time you were Martina’s prince while playing dress-up you are worth the scalpels that carved your infant genitals placed them on a platter for normalcy, & seeped into your toddler nightmares 30

you are worth your parents’ misunderstanding falling into a shrink’s couch you are worth your father’s wedding ring branded into the flesh on your cheek bone you are worth every word you choked on cause your tongue couldn’t keep up with your fear you are worth the bold hate FAGGOT printed on your locker door You deserved every fiber of agony you’ve wrestled because now it belongs to you you can make this beautiful This is your magnum opus. So you set your masterpiece free here in your father’s bathroom all over his National Geographic’s & Cabelas catalogues

Or you could crack your sternum with one breath and grain by grain, unload the contents of your rib cage place them in the sink to wash them clean and just keep moving Just keep moving Because in four years you’ll wake every morning in a world that hates you and you’ll love it back all this will feel like images you saw enwombed you’ll keep it all hid

Beautiful girls will break your heart the beings of your own flesh won’t wish you a happy birthday but you’ll be able to feel their sting, heartless-made just for you you’ll be more than fashionably uninvited more than prayers sent up in your name more than floral print sofas and fluoxetine more than afterschool snack refuge more than what you hide half-naked in the locker room more than the big frame revolver gives you more than your body will ever show in any light so don’t let them take it from you cause someday, you’ll just be okay

Fruitless j.i. kleinberg

Vine gone to leaves. Buds dropped in hard frost. Abandoned by bees. Blown away in a pink blizzard. Nothing to last. Nothing to show. Learning to love my leaves, my gnarled branches, my peeling bark. Learning to stand firm: windbreak watershed artifact sculpture shade maker.

Release 2 Jenna Knell

Embracing What Grows in the Mind...and on the Brow Katherine Freeman

Dear Man I Used to Love Morgan Jade

Dear man I used to love, Thank you for forcing me to find myself. You’ll never read this, but I’ll tell you who I’ve become since falling apart completely. I live my life with intention, but it has come at a price: I am fixated on my figure. When we were dating you shined a light on my life. For every a-hole who said I was “out-there,” you said I was amazing. I loved to reach up and touch your face. When you looked at me, you LOOKED. We were outliers who found each other in the too-huge world--it was epic. I couldn’t wait to be with you for life, and everyday I learned a bit more about what it meant to truly understand love. You wanted your partner close by so I resisted the urge to go abroad, and I stayed back for you; I put my dreams on hold for you because the light in your eyes had a stronghold on me. The earth pulled me undeniably though, and I left for an adventure with the promise I would come back to you. I took us for granted; I had no idea I’d never see you again. You weren’t okay with me leaving, were you? We hung by a thread though we both tried to mend ourselves. November 9th changed me forever. It was the day I climbed to the top of that infamous hill in Verona, framed by a fortress. I sat on the fortress wall and watched the moon settle over Juliette’s town. You had found someone else, though you didn’t want to admit it; you lied to me. I wonder what you were doing while I was staring in awe at the lights. When I flew home a month later and faced reality, I discovered that I hated

everything about myself: my life, my body, the choice I made to leave. I no longer felt like the intelligent and capable woman I had worked hard at becoming. I tried desperately to get you back. Do you remember? I think you were kind of sad too. We called each other, even though you were dating someone else. You probably spun grand tales to cover your ass. You were sleeping with her, but thinking about me. Was that healthy? Why didn’t you try to get me back? It would have been so easy... When I finally accepted that you didn’t want me, I began to deprive myself of the things I needed most. It seemed like the only way to maintain control of my life. I started to push my boundaries to discover how little I could eat and still function. I shed pounds and I liked it, especially the way my neck looked; it became so thin. I bought clothes in the kids department. Mind you, I was 24. I was sallow and tired, but I thought, “if I can’t have you, at least I can be skinny.” . People said I would snap in half–and that proved I was doing a good thing. I did all this because I wanted to show you how beautiful I could be, even though I never saw you again. At the time, I didn’t value my mind or body enough to accept the things I couldn’t change, and move on with dignity. I got skinnier but more depressed. I tried all the old tricks to get over you—to get over my self-hatred. It was all my fault: you breaking up with me. I caused you to do it, right? I would never find another soul mate. I would be depressed forever. If I had just done XYZ......we would still be together. Can’t you give me another chance? Is that girl really the one for you? Fuck. You ruined my life. I know what you’re thinking..... “why couldn’t you just get forget about me and move on?” My heart hurt so much, and I destroyed it further with self-hatred. You were a prick. I couldn’t date other people; I felt guilty looking at other men because I wanted to be with you. The wall I built up around myself pushed other people away--people that 36

wanted to be good to me. I can’t remember why, but about a year after our demise I realized I was abusing my body. There were things I knew I would accomplish if I pulled myself together. My family, friends, and coworkers helped me start the slow climb to freedom and self-love. The words they spoke were my salvation. They seemed like easy words back then, but they were the true words, the real words. Amazingly, I found a new love. Yoga saved my life over two years ago. It taught me to breathe deeply, and live with intention. It forced me to nourish my body with loving combinations of carbon, hydrogen and oxygen. I started to feel joy for the journey I was on. I started to believe there was a tomorrow—that I had things to live for, that I actually had more than I could ever want or need. You were not forgotten completely though. Sometimes I got teary-eyed during shavasana, lying on my purple mat. Lying there loving my skinny self, but still feeling alone...wondering why I was not good enough for the man who once was crazy for me. I started to love myself again, and realized my self-worth. I have become a scientist, a volunteer, and an activist. I give my heart to my friends, and look people in the eyes. I take on innumerable projects and causes, because there are so many wonderful things to spend my time on. Every day I can’t wait for the next. I’m an ally, and I’m beautiful. What I really love about myself are my arms. They support me while I fall deeper into myself. They hold me up while I show kindness to myself through yoga. My arms are a reflection of what I’ve done in the process of finding myself. I’ve been a single Jane for three years. It’s kind of amazing that the woman who thought she couldn’t live without you has been standing on her own all this time. I still fight for control of my frame–and it’s something I might do for life, but I can say one thing for sure—you not wanting me taught me some 37

of the best lessons I could ever learn: one, I will never again let a disaster make me feel ugly and inadequate, because I know Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m beautiful. Two, sometimes the darkest hours brings out the brightest lights in people. I am shining.

Lingering Days Jessie Ulmer

There is a lingering In this place Where leaving Turns in to going Than once more into arriving A place where I will turn Have already turned Where the edges of yourself Meet each other And will meet each other To hold palms flat And raised, pressed together In the autumn colored air The seam between your fingers Marking the place Of the oncoming changes That lingers here

Untitled Katie Hudak

Infinite Possibilties : The Story of A Life in Unfinished Draft Adrianne D’ Angelo

I would like to start out by saying that I do not consider myself to be incredible. Compared to the numerous things my life could be right now, and the many things my classmates are doing, I am not that unique. However, I do have a message worth sharing, and here’s where that message comes from. I was four years old when I was first diagnosed with Acute Lympoblastic Leukemia, or ALL. I don’t really remember much about when I was first diagnosed and my treatment consisted mainly of spinal taps, blood draws, and shots. I’m not sure I really understood what was going on. I couldn’t understand why people were worried about me. I still occasionally gain new insight to the risks I overcame. But I was eventually pronounced cured. When I was eight and in second grade, there was one winter week that I hurt my leg. Instead of getting better, the pain just seemed to get worse, until I couldn’t even walk to school without limping. I thought I had broken it, so my mother took me to get an X-ray… Where they found nothing wrong. We went to the specialized hospital in another town where they did various tests, sticking me and my family in a curtained, multi-bedded ward. I don’t remember the rest of that hospital experience, I just remember sitting in that room. Waiting for the doctors to show up. Another patient who was my age and completely bed ridden, was crying out. She hated the Huggies, they were too tight, no! not the Huggies!… This may seem like an odd thing to remember so clearly while not really remembering the rest of it but those hysterical, pained cries that echoed through the ward evoked a cold fear in me. “Please don’t let that be me” I remember thinking. The feeling became even worse when the doctors returned, drew the curtain around my bed and asked to speak to my mother outside. They talked in hushed tones for a while before I caught something that sounded like “If there’s something she’s wanted to do you should let her.” and then an “I’m sorry,” to which my mother responded, “Well, I’m sorry, but I’m getting a second opinion.” I had relapsed with Leukemia. That meant many trips to a pediatric hospital in Phoenix Arizona, the state we were living in at the time. I had more shots and I.V. drips, which were chemotherapy, and we were given a new treatment option called a bone marrow transplant. 40

The doctor explained that inside the bone is a substance called bone marrow, which is responsible for keeping people healthy by manufacturing white blood cells. In my case my was body was producing white blood cells that couldn’t do their job, so instead they just sat there taking up space. As more of these unhealthy cells accumulated, they started to build up, and they produced pressure on the walls of the inside of my bone. That caused the intense pain I was feeling. Since the last treatment hadn’t worked, they could combine my chemotherapy with a bone marrow transplant; a relatively new treatment for pediatric cancer patients. As with all transplants, I was told, there would be some danger involved. The cells would be coming from someone else’s body into mine, and being used to the other body they may attack mine. This is called graft versus host disease. I was lucky-having an identical twin sister meant that if she was willing to donate, the chances of the disease were very slim. My sister agreed, and the entire treatment took about a year to complete. What you might not realize is that all cancer treatment comes with a cost. In order to kill the cancer, you are also going to be killing healthy cells. In order to input the good bone marrow, from my sister into me, they had to first kill off my own bone marrow, which is the most dangerous part of this treatment. At this point the body has no immunity at all and even everyday bacteria, germs and viruses can be fatal. I came out of treatment, and we returned to Washington state. I was again on a schedule of frequent check ups, that decreased with my increased health. I was about three months away from being pronounced cured, and at a regular check up getting blood tests. After more extensive tests, they told me that I had relapsed again. I went to Children’s Hospital in Seattle for treatment this time. Given the lack of success with past treatment, they threw in another experimental path: chemotherapy, bone marrow transplant, and radiation therapy. All of them. Radiation therapy terrified me, but I was determined to get rid of this thing. I was of course, anticipating being dumped in glowing-green toxic vats with three-headed creatures, militaristic ray guns and having problems with glowing in the dark. My doctor had already told me that gaining super powers was out. My treatment actually amounted to sitting in a beach-scene painted room for two hours, watching a movie or reading. The walls hummed as radioactive waves filled the secured room for about an hour. The other hour spent waiting for my body to return to a normal level of radiation so that I could leave again. Was I scared, was I depressed, did I ever doubt I would make it? Of course. While I was being treated I contracted pneumonia. The medicine they put me on caused my liver to fail. I have no memory of 41

this. I am told this lack of memory is due to the medication they put me on in the ICU. Apparently the ICU is not a good place to remember being, go figure. My Oma and Opa flew in from Georgia to see me before I went in and they gave me a black stuffed dog, which I thanked them for. I don’t remember it at all. I remember kind of waking up and struggling against someone trying to shove something down my throat; only to hear my mom pleading with me to stop, explaining that the tube was to help me breathe. I remember the nightmares I had after hearing the second Harry Potter book read aloud. Snape was always jumping out of a closet at the bottom of the stairs and waylaying me of the hallways of my dreams. I also remember someone coming in and shining a light in my eyes, and holding it there much longer then seemed necessary. I knocked her hand away; she didn’t like that. I didn’t care. When I got out of the ICU, I didn’t even have the muscles to hold my head up and I was put in a wheelchair. I am fairly sure there is nothing more frustrating then having to relearn to do something that used to require no thought at all-like feeding yourself, or sitting up. After my second bone marrow transplant and almost a year of hospitalization, I was finally allowed to leave. I went through physical therapy to regain the use of my body; although not as much as I could have, if my handwriting is anything to judge by. There were many times I wasn’t sure if I could make it through. What was the point if I was just going to relapse again? If I hadn’t had my family there to support, coax, and occasionally bully me into moving on, I don’t think I would have done nearly so well. When the doctors gave me the green flag to go home they also told me that there was some permanent brain damage done as a result of treatment. One doctor even advised me that I would be lucky if I was able to graduate high school, much less go to college. As you can imagine, this did not sit well with me. All my life I had been told I was an intelligent kid, and I took pride in that. Even at the age of 11, I had already determined I was going to college. I jumped down off the examination table, looked him right in the eye and told him, “Thank you for your input, but you’re wrong.” Now here I am getting ready to graduate from Western. Despite the odds, despite the numerous people who wished me the best but expected me to fail, I made it. That is the point of this story: never ever give up. You owe it to life, to those who care about you, but most importantly to yourself. There are so many incredible people out there, and so many incredible things you can do and have yet to become. Somewhere there is hope, there is possibility, that is what life is. That is what I believe, and what I hope to share with you. Though we may stumble and fall we will carry on to tomorrow stronger for it. 42

Sisters from Other Misters Bare Brothers from Other Mothers Tyna Ontko

No More Clotheshangers Kelsey Beckmeyer

Mother Dearest ¨No more wire hangers.¨ Mother Dearest said it best. Standing up and facing the crowds of spectators ready to persecute, to judge, to blame, to jail. ¨No more wire hangers.¨ Mother Dearest took a stance so her daughter would never know the pain as the crooked hook entered and tore her apart. because she. was. not. ready. And No one would help. ¨No more wire hangers.¨ Mother Dearest said it best. Do not back down. Do not give up. Do not return to the closet, the back alley – the dark.

¨No more wire hangers.¨ To brutalize, to ostracize, to shame. The scars left behind remind her of the fight, the fight to see a better world – a choice.

With My Hands Allison Avery

Oil

Brianna Fulghum-Behen

Anjumâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mind was at rest. She removed her veil delicately, revealing thick, lustrous, chestnut brown hair. The sunlight made its way in through the window and danced its way across every strand. Anjum had always been a young beauty, but hid behind a mask. She hummed contently now as she brushed through tangles at the nape of her neck; with patience each tangle would come undone. Everything had to be perfect; it would be the first time Burhan and his esteemed guests would see her hair glisten in the sun. As she removed her gold bracelets one by one, her burdens lightened. These gifts from her husband never went unnoticed; they made a noise with even her slightest movements. Anjum began delicately applying pungent oils to her arms; the smell reminded her of the spices her mother had around the house as a child. Though she hid it well, anyone with a caring eye could see Anjum had been forced to grow up too fast; she had the eyes of a child who had seen too much too soon. When one of the other women of the house would notice Anjumâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mind drifting, Anjum would simply remark that she was trying to remember the secret ingredient of her motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mourgh, for it had always been her favorite as a child and she wished to make it for Burhan. Anjum never let on that she had wished to travel the world and seen what it had to offer before settling down and having children. Anjum began to analyze every mark on her skin, every scar she had acquired over the years. The one on her shoulder for being clumsy, the ones on her arms for being forgetful, and the one on her chest for making a silly mistake. Anjum winced as she gently pressed her fingertips upon the fresh cut on her cheekbone; this one was unwarranted. She carefully wrapped the shawl her mother had given her as she left home for the last time over her shoulders. Anjum slowly poured the rest of the cooking oil over her clothes; memories of her mother and life before marriage consumed her. As Anjum got clung to the scent of cardamom and saffron, she was careful to avoid getting oil in her long flowing hair for it had to be perfect. As Anjum stepped outside, she paused for just a moment to feel the sunlight warm her face and hair. With a deep breath, she lit the match, and while her skin blistered and cracked, she danced her way into the sun.

Iris

Alexandra Espinosa

Her history bound around her thumb Her strength in her index Her humility lingers in between The next longs for what is unknown Last encouraging growth, Her name is Iris

By the Time You’re Ready Nancy Canyon

Kindling is spitting in the woodstove and your ovum are ripe. Your eyes loll like heated cat’s and he’s a rabbit, stripping before you can get the curtains closed. It takes for three months and then a red river burns through. The man holding the catheter says, Are you giving up the baby? You are young, but not unfeeling like him. I’m keeping it, you say. But the baby is already dead.

Jenna Is

Ashley Hollender

We All Sleep Michaela Patrick

Día de la Revolucíon Kelsey Beckmeyer

My body is not a land to be discover, a territory to conquer. I am not a piece of art to admire, nor an animal to pet, caress, or grab. I am not here to feed your pride or boost your self-esteem. That is not my body´s purpose. My tears of frustration cannot quench your parched ego, waiting for a woman to violate with dirty hands that will never. again. be clean. Mi cuerpo no es una tierra para descubir, un territorio para conquistar. Yo no soy una obra para admirar, ni un animal para mimar, acariciar, o tentar. Yo no estoy aquí para alimentar su orgullo o fomentar su autoestima. Éste no es el propósito de mi cuerpo. Mis lágrimas de frustración no pueden apagar su ego seco, esperando a una mujer para violar con las manos que nunca. estarán. limpias. otra vez.

Release 3 Jenna Knell

Super Heroes and Damsels Jason Fernandez

I look around and I see Girls who were princesses Fantasizing about prince charming Girls who ran through Woods with fairies and other creatures That only a childâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mind could see I see young boys Who once saved a city Wearing their pajamas or a spandex suit Using their powers To save their girl from the clutches of a madman I see kids who Had an imagination once Who had friends that only they could see When did it happen? When did the girls melt their crowns Spreading the liquid gold Over their skin until they glowed An unnatural hue Wandering around the city streets like Dying suns When did the boys hang up their capes And bury their masks I look around and see Babies raising babies Pretending to be alright But the shoes are too big And they trip and fall Our boys try to be men But the visions askew They now live by the following rules Find the girl worth your lust Not your love If you can fight youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re a man 53

To be a man You have to be an island And if you believe any of this I swear you’re full of shit Our girls pursue a new definition of womanhood Find the “hardcore man” Regardless of your burning self esteem Surrender yourself So he’ll love you more Give and give and give Until youre empty inside He’ll pick up his pants And move on to the next I look around And my eyes fall on the kids And I’m dying to scream STOP! Girls melt the gold from your body Bend it into the form of serenity Slip on your dress and stand tall Guys please put on your cape Soar into the city And look for your lady’s gold sign Swoop her up And don’t be afraid to say “Hey I think your pretty I swear I’m not being your judge and jury I once buried my mask and ran with the crowd Take it from me When superheroes fall from their perches in skyscrapers It’s a long way down I’ve done terrible things And when I came home My imaginary friends had all moved on Even the boy inside Wouldn’t look me in the eye So please

Take the child in you Lead it by the hand And go swing on the swing sets Play in the park Scribble tic tac toe in the sand I want you to go back home and find something pure I want you to laugh and laugh Until tears roll from your eyes And freeze on your cheeks Laugh out a tear For every bad memory and Shit situation Laugh until you giggle Like the kid You used to be.

Vogue

Amber yandle

On What I See and What I Think Amy Saxton

Looking to my right and left I see bare arms and legs. Smooth, attractive limbs all finding their nexus in tight, bright red dresses which barely cover the possible bareness of other parts of these bodies. In this line-up of silky skin and silky dress, I know I look the same. The same: that is, ridiculous. Looking beyond my sexy comrades, I see grandmothers wearing sun hats adorned with flowers, white pant suits, and socks that ensure no one can see that inch of ankle that likes to show itself when someone wearing a white pant suit sits down. I see a pastor. I feel out of place. This book is filled with words, but none are catching my attention right now. I’m seeing the words, vaguely; at least, I look like I’m seeing the words. If someone were looking at a screen, looking through a security camera, looking at me, looking at a book, they would think I was reading. When I was seven-years-old, I read something that did catch my attention. An article in the newspaper described four eight-year-old boys being harassed by a young criminal - someone who had been in and out of juvie and who, on this occasion, had repeatedly approached the boys playing in their yard. He threatened and taunted them, and on his last appearance had shown up with a ten-inch knife. The article in the newspaper—black, gray, official—looked like the truth, but looks can be deceiving. Once I saw my mom in the crowded airport; I ran to hug her legs. It wasn’t my mom. Regardless of how much skin is showing, the sweat is visible on everyone. Except the grandmothers; grandmothers never get hot. (My grandmother is under a blanket in August. The yarn is crocheted in the most intricate floral design. I can’t fathom how anything but pure nature could form such flowers, the curve and tug of each strand of yarn makes me want to smell them. I want to pluck them, put them in some water, and give them to my grandmother who is already curled so cutely underneath. She smiles—a real denture-commercial smile—while everyone else is itching to turn down the thermostat.) Anyway, sweat stains. Fortunately, most men wear dark-colored suits to weddings. But, as I can do nothing else from my immobile vantage point, I look for these innocuous darker marks. The gentleman who accompanied me down the aisle has the most to show. His head hurts my eyes a little to look 58

at; its shine becomes more offensive the longer I look. He clearly shaved it this morning: it’s all pink, but just around the ears and circumventing his head is a sprinkling of miniscule pinpricks of not-pink. Blackishbrownishgrayishblonde. They look like so many blackheads, but I know its really those hairs shaved not close enough, waiting for their chance to spring forth and wave in the breeze. They are difficult to see, however, unless one is looking closely, because the bright sunlight reflecting off the heavy droplets of sweat waterfalling down his head to his face makes one want to look away. On either side of him, the other gentlemen have their own problems. The best man’s face is flushed with the heat. The tops of his ears are bright red and maybe the grandmothers think all that moisture under his eyes is the effusion of tears brought on by the high level of emotion we’re all subject to today. Mostly, what I saw was the bumper of my friend’s mom’s minivan. After the first few appearances of the boy who gave me my first feeling of terror, I decided to hide. I had ridden in this van countless times, but there was still so much of it I had never noticed. So many scuff marks on the bumper, probably caused by my friends, my brother, and myself playing basketball, like we were doing right now. White lines on gray bumper, like lines of cocaine. Like the drugs this teenager’s mom did, which is why she never told him that threatening little kids isn’t what good people do. Like the bars of his dad’s jail cell, where he can’t tell his son that either. I didn’t know any of this until after my brother talked to the police. There are reasons behind everything and there are things you can’t know just by looking at them. No one who read that article would know that it was really three boys and one girl, and that we were all different ages. Now I can never look at the news without doubting the details. I may look like I’m reading, but really I’m listening to your conversation. That lady only looks like my mom.

The Painted Lady Karley Lesko

No Choices Sophia Dame

Sprawled upon the floor, and I remember. Your lips pressed to mine, your green eyes gazing into my heart. Blood running down my thighs, and I remember. You hand resting on my hip, your breath in my ear. The nights of secrets, numerous. Cuddled close; definitely not â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;watching a movieâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;. Grabbing the counter edge, and I wonder. They say it happened June 4th. Can I remember that night? Distinguish it from the others. Desire to ask you, tell you. Tremendous. You left me. Replaced me. Us. Punishment: watching my body heart and soul spill out in a bloody mess. No choice. No energy left. Instead, I lie there. Hours? Days? Weeks? I miss her. My baby. My daughter. Mine. Not yours. She resides in MY memory, MY heart. I love you, My dearest Valentina. Today, tomorrow, always.

The Birth of Aphrodite Arielle Yarwood

I can feel it in your hands, you know, the way you smooth your thumb over the flesh of mine, the way your body (re)forms, (re)orients, when I reach my own hand around to cup the supple reed of your neck-When I press against your chest and its firm flatness is replaced by the feel of water rushing over rocks-[This sweet (trans)ubstantiation] When my fingertips kiss the eyelid-soft skin that covers your hips and find not the sharp, familiar angles but rather curves that crest like waves-When my Adonis drips anemones and Aphrodite emerges naked from the tides-I can feel it, you know, this lunar change, as I kiss away the salt of the sea foam and welcome you to shore.

Jeff Emtman 63

Introspection Charlotte Alford

I am raking my nails down my water-logged chest. Splinters of bone are working their way into my nail bed. I cannot feel it. The sounds from my throat have lost their humanity. It is a howling coming through an endless sea. It is the gurgled attempt of tying myself back to the earth. I am digging the fingers of my left hand into my chest, right hand set in a monotonous beat of clawing, clawing. I am probing through small spaces in my rib cage, fingertips meandering over porous bone. I am curling each finger around the living infrastructure of my self. I am straining to pull it out. Muffled cracks, like a glass broken under a wet rag, are reverberating from each hollow bar. I am setting my rib cage aside. I am pushing apart each soggy organ, frantic, unable to see through the murky shade of red spilling over my hands. I am searching for something I need. I am howling for the thing I need. I am grasping at spongy tissue, tugging at the tendrils of flesh that work as a web to keep me whole. I break them. They are responding like rubber bands, snapping back into the cavernous human walls. My lungs are tipping slowly forward. Gravity is kindly asking for them. I am dragging my hands over them, taking them out of my body like I would take off the shirt from my chest. I am not stopping them from descending to the floor. They fumble to the ground, landing like dead flounder. I am delving into the wormed mass of intestines, coiling the bends over my wrist and tugging them out. They curl on the floor, forming abstract shapes around my feet. I am carving my fingernails through my stomach lining. Its contentsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;my breakfastâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;are cascading down my thighs. With cupped hands, I am emptying the shrinking sack. I have found exactly what I need. It is obscured by blood and loose tissue. I am plucking it, gingerly, from my gaping torso. Plasma fills its lines; its corners are dulled by swaths of opaque red. I am pushing my thumb against its side, revealing vibrant squares of color. They are truest oranges, blues, yellows, greens. I am engulfed behind the presence. I am overwhelmed by what it could be.

A Rubikâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cube. It is simple. Plain. A cryptic way of passing time. My peripheral vision is narrowing. I am laughing at my naĂŻve desperation, as my body flutters limply to the floor.

Unplugged Parisa Emam

See my robot skin, all plugged in to electrodes and infusions? I come with accessory attachments, rattling metal limbs, my platinum parts sparkle. I come retrofitted with splints, devices, I am hard plastic edges. I work to the slot machine of vital signs behind my eyes, calculating risks, dividing probabilities. I’m propelled by cold mechanics, an army of Skittle-shaped pills fueling my strength like fortified spinach. I come with an egg-timer heart chirping a little off-rhythm ‘cause my battery won’t run right. You come knowing it doesn’t matter, knowing I’m not all wires and dials, knowing how to untangle these cords.

Jake Reller

Shadows and Simulacra

Agami

Sasha Parsley 68

Murmurs

Arielle Yarwood

This muscle, this heart on my left side encapsulated by ribs and flesh and cotton – it murmurs. One valve, one open-close, sighs and instead says openswish, open-swish, the door refusing to shut properly, the blood flowing out and backwashing in. I lie on my bed, eyes scraping at the dents in the ceiling, and hear it mumble. In repose it whispers and slurs. An old man rasping and a baby burbling. In the doctor’s office, she holds the cool metal to my thin chest and frowns. “You have a heart murmur, did you know that?” I nod and tell her that I’ve always had it, that all the other doctors told me it was benign. I do not mention that this organ is my favorite, that it keeps me company in the thick dark, tucked warm beneath my breast. The doctor tells me to lie down and explores my torso with efficient hands, pauses the longest just above my heart. “It’s louder when you lie down,” she says, as if noting a strange taste. I nod. I know. Sometimes when I sit and think, when I talk, when I work, the muscle seizes – thumps harder, faster, scratches at the barrier of my ribs, just for an instant. My breath stalls in my throat and I clutch my chest with clawed fingers. My heart yells but I never understand what it says. It passes. I also do not mention this to the doctor. She purses thin lips and checks a box on the medical form. My heart is satisfactory. Three hours later I am in your bed, coated in hot sweat, the sheets on the floor, my body exposed to the blind ceiling. My pulse beats in my fingertips, in my lips, in the floor of my stomach. I know that in a few moments it will fade and I will become cold, I will pull the blankets up to cover my bareness. Yet in that breath, with the thump of my blood expanding in rushes to the rest of my body, with your arm draped lazily over my chest, my heart speaks clearly. My mouth and tongue clamor to respond, and find your lips.

The Uninvited Anonmyous

T t h w e o u s n t i r n a v i I g t h e t d l c i a n m e e s . i . n . Questions of How? and Why? seem foolishly unproductive, but I asked them anyway. In the end this seems nothing short of a profound inconvenience.

Now that it is over, it has just begun. Empty not only of the conceived inconceivable, but also of all control. In the ultimate act of control, I have lost myself. With life sucked out of me, drained of purpose. I am stuck again in the realm of a different kind of Lost innocence. I traded its now for my own.

Halo â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Like Moon Jake Reller

Flamenco Kissed Skies Jack Kostylo

I know my breasts will never have the fullness of mountains or even the allure of small hilltops. I know my hips will never sing beside zills, or capture the desires of a nameless crowd. But her hands slide along my crossed, nervous legs, and her lips caress the arms that cover my chest. In her firework eyes, I can see my reflection exploding in wild brilliance. Through the bright lights, my arms reveal mountains, and her hands trace the curves of a woman who dances like fire. I am alive in her, tears welling in fear and hope that I could be anything but a man

The Homeland Dystopia Allison Cooper

The United States is turning women into androids. Ladies, this is something we can’t avoid. Soon we’ll be walking incubators filled with the good, warm comfort of an unwanted child. See, they’ll turn us into hybrid womb-droids to host a war in our uterus walls and give birth to new recruits. Our bodies are battlegrounds for potential troops so that the US can occupy the wombs of women world-wide. I’m pregnant with a time bomb – About to give birth to a wrecking ball. He’ll come out small – a bullet Then that will be all with me. They’ll load him in a gun and he’ll join the commands at a young age two hours old – already in the ranks. I swear, they have this all planned. Planned – Unlike the next generation of families without the proper tools for education you know… birth control, condoms shit like that doesn’t matter when women could birth farms of little baby bullets ready to shoot into martyrdom …for freedom – freedom to continue reproduction.

My body will be the factory for future artillery. I’ll pump out bullets and grenades like orgasms, each one stronger than the last. They’ll slap my babies with a sticker reading “Made – from – American – Pussy” Then my pussy will be declared a war hero They’ll give her decorations because she is like uranium and could annihilate nations.

Watch the precious chemical peel back my flesh And I’ll show you what woman means Watch me strip down to womb and egg And I’ll show you what woman means Watch my bloody show this body I no longer know for I am the hybrid womb-droid So ladies and androids alike, Come out – come out Wherever you are The future isn’t so far.

Tonight Will Be Fine: A Sestina Shelby Wickett

The frost was always me and you, armed with woven wool to try and beat the ice that cracked and split our lips. Abusive wind hit our teeth and smashed against our bodies that searched for shelter. “Honey, fix the heater in your old Volvo.” Now I fix my eyes on a mirror of you manifest in her four-month-old cheeks smashed against the carseat. She’s beat, it’s late. My heart stops as tires hit ice and glide. For a split second we’re dancing. Your hands and mine split an embrace. It’s my nerves you fix with your calm control. You hit the gas and I think, “We’re fine.” You gave me a daughter and we beat our fate. Together we move from smashed in an old beater to the warmer side of frosted glass, smashed together under blankets and desire. We once split before the glue of her golden eyes pulled us back, beat down by the imminence of a temporary fix. Every cell in my body knows to miss you when you leave, crave you back for another hit. The night you left I swore I’d forget the hit.

“I’m sorry, I can’t live without…can we fix this?” The bone of hard fist smashed against soft-mouthed woman, your touch split my lip and the blood spoke “I love you” your words beat me down, but I would never tell that you beat me up. You didn’t mean it, you were smashed. The phrase I thought would keep you hit the silence hard. “I’m pregnant.” You split. Left to decide if you were gone, if I should fix the “problem.” I couldn’t lose the piece of you I held. Her heartbeat and mine smashed together, her cry hit the room we split and you saw how she fixed our souls, how she transformed you.

Untitled Katie Hudak 78

Unfinishing Mackenzie Gregg

in a room where steam dripped down the mirror, he read me Neruda. my chest hunkered down for winter, my pubic hair like mattress springs exposed, I was a piece of weaving stretched across loom and left to unravel in the storm.

Resistance

Christine Axworthy

Untitled Natalie Eitel

Here. we have fallen. to the same page of this anecdotal fairytale. lost on lips and lust. stretching on the prologue. tied to the skyline. sunset orange and midnight blue. and we are lost in that sea beneath the sun. schools of fish learning this world. foreword. the story grows. stronger in those infinite eyes. voices soft. on primal passion. minutes lost on the day. there. your floodtide washes oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;er me catharsis in this dĂŠnouement.

Summer of Mom Maureen Armstrong

Her art is in her childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s smiles. They laugh so sweetly like the breeze that washes down the summer leaves. She wades in sterile pools, her arms outstretched, to catch her babies as they leap from concrete steps, hot from the sun. Orange pits lie littered in the grass. Brown skin made heavy from the heat, pulled taut across her sinewed limbs. A fervent yell cuts through lethargic air, bleeds golden hunger down dry throats. Sharp thirst now quenched by cold peach pie.

Jeff Emtman

Midnight Graffiti Jason Fernandez

the day you dropped your halo I picked up the fragments and scribbled in cracked golden chalk across your bedposts never forget where you came from hoping the twinkle of my bedtime vandalism would wake you up to who you really are I did this the night before your funeral You buried yourself in a casket made of UV bulbs in a hole that reeked of peroxide. you wanted me to understand why it is you had to go so you left me a suicide note made from magazine clippings whos message boiled down to you were never going to be good enough so you took a suicide swan dive into a whole new world instead of being a woman you were focused on becoming a sex object cuz thats what they told you boys liked studying 99 sex positions just so you could keep them happy never really knowing what made you tick plugged in on the daily to the not so subliminal message track of â&#x20AC;&#x153;do you have real skin real curves real personality 84

real beauty any semblance of self worth a voice if you find yourself suffering from any of the previous conditions we definitely have a cure for youâ&#x20AC;? you dialed the number scheduled an appointment and had your wings ripped from your body by the best plastic surgeons money could buy I hear the procedure is basically painless, not like thats hard to believe, its hard to feel anything but cold when youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re missing your soul you gave me your halo as a keepsake, so I could remember what you didnt want to anymore because who you were hated who you had become i tried to give it back tellin you im sure that it still fits, just give it a try you scoffed cause you couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t find a label on it and dashed it on the ground, so i took to regular late night graffiti, scribbling you are beautiful accross the pages 85

of your cosmopalitan bibles writing down chorus lines of you never needed any of this on the blank pages of white noise ad space then before I left your room, I left one last masterpiece, etching in morse code across your mirror, IT’S NEVER TO LATE TOO GO BACK. STOP. YOU FORGOT HOW TO LOVE YOURSELF. STOP. I KNOW YOU THINK YOU’RE NOT GOOD ENOUGH. STOP. IF YOU FIND YOURSELF HAVING DOUBTS. STOP. AND REPEAT AFTER THESE DOTS AND DASHES I LEFT IN YOUR LOOKING GLASS. STOP. I AM BEAUTIFUL I AM WORTH THIS NOT WORTHLESS i left that sentence open ended for a reason because I wanted you to always utter the last phrase, and never STOP.

Hummingbird cade Schmidt

Jeff Emtman 88

My Mother’s Mirror Aimy Enriquez

I stand – staring my blank self. Reflection Reveals uneven brown tones, blemishes of red, and a grey girl’s gaze. I peer away to an array of tiny glass cases – powders, shimmers, foundations lighter than her skin. I glance back figuring this woman, her familiar features. I confront the uncanny – my mother’s gaze.

Untitled Katie Hudak

New Eyes

Rachel Tomchick

“I can see only with the two eyes I have had for so long”, and I consider the new ones I got this summer. I light a candle so my room smells less like guilt. This is misplaced because the guilt was a result of feeling rejected. Girls have this way of dancing around what they mean, but he likes to tell me how she is a better dancer than me. This must be why I do not understand. Verbal and nonverbal cues seem misaligned. With these new eyes I see tea weather, which calls for couch cuddling and obscure films. Instead, I get late night calls and a cold bed side. What am I looking for? I am not finding it in that or him. I could find it in her, if she would only let me. She is too good to be pulled into all of this. Perhaps I should run, and change my glances to a far off, lonely place. Kat, let’s make our lady ranch—a haven with animals, and women who I won’t want. Kat, I will bring you tea—two bags, no cream, and sugar. Unlike bringing a rain stained mug displaying the perpetrator’s name in faded—but permanent—ink.

My Body Is Not My Temple Stephanie Bueler

I refuse to put my pussy on a pedestal and I will not partake in my own selfobjectification. My sexuality does not outline my worth, and I am not defined by what I do with my body. I have learned that the objectification of women does not start with “look at that ass” or “can I get some fries with that shake”. No, objectification starts with “save it for someone special” and “if you give everyone a piece of your pie there won’t be any left for the one you love”. It ends in societies forced tight-rope walk for women between prude and slut. Let me tell you something, my vagina is not made out of lemon fucking meringue, and if “special” means buying dinner in exchange for my goods and services, you can keep it. My mind is my temple, it is what I hold sacred and I will not let it be desecrated or invaded by the notion that it is to be valued less than its physical extension. And my heart, for all the damage it has taken, and the love that is has shared in order to build its own beautiful character is what outlines my worth as a human being, as a lover, as a friend. So call me a slut for not acting as a female in society should, call me whatever you please, but modern day patriarchal ideals will not make me use my vagina as some sort of special currency I exchange for dinner and a movie, because it isn’t even the tip of the iceberg of what my heart andsoul have to offer.

Daffodil

Stacey Williams

Consequence, Compounded Disabilities Dylan Serdenia

Whilstling zephyr bites open flesh. Rolling river of blood creates neurons where there were none. Smile. Make jokes. They won’t keep you in a padded cell. Again. Applying pressure will not stop the bleeding; will not repair split muscle. Repair severed nerves. You are sick, but you do not cough. Casual cuts become black & white photos. Fingers without feeling—forever scarred. “Acute bipolar disorder” “Laceration (L Forearm, sub acute).” “Partial radial nerve injury”.

Index 09

You Are Not Wrong Maureen Armstron

Eithnu nal nan sandai po-than (சரஸ்வதி Saraswati Noel

Untitled Briana Fitzpatrick

Release 1 Jenna Knell

Dear America Sara Richards

For Emily Sara Purington

Dissection 1 & 2 Allison Avery

Corey Keith Daniel

More to Sex Daniel Espinoza-Gonzalez

Marlene Laurel Kam

Nadia Laurel Kam

சபதம)

Ironing Board Danny Canham

What Body Cade Schmidt

Magnum Opus Cade Schmidt

Fruitless j.i. kleinberg

Release 2 Jenna Knell

Embracing What Grows in the Mind...and on the Brow Katherine Freeman

Dear Man I Used to Love Morgan Jade

Lingering Days Jessie Ulmer

Untitled Katie Hudak

Infinite Possibilties : The Story of A Life in Unfinished Draft Adrianne Dâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Angelo

Sisters from Other Misters Bare Brothers from Other Mothers Tyna Ontko

No More Clotheshangers Kelsey Beckmeyer

With My Hands Allison Avery

Oil Brianna Fulghum-Behen

Iris Alexandra Espinosa

By the Time You’re Ready Nancy Canyon

Jenna Is Ashley Hollender

We All Sleep Michaela Patrick

Día de la Revolucíon Kelsey Beckmeyer

Release 3 Jenna Knell

Super Heroes and Damsels Jason Fernandez

Vogue Amber yandle

On What I See and What I Think Amy Saxton

The Painted Lady Karley Lesko

No Choices Sophia Dame

The Birth of Aphrodite Arielle Yarwood

* Jeff Emtman

Introspection Charlotte Alford

Unplugged Parisa Emam

Shadows and Simulacra Jake Reller

Agami Sasha Parsley

Murmurs Arielle Yarwood

The Uninvited Anonmyous

Halo â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Like Moon Jake Reller

Flamenco Kissed Skies Jack Kostylo

The Homeland Dystopia Allison Cooper

Tonight Will Be Fine: A Sestina Shelby Wickett

Untitled Katie Hudak

Unfinishing Mackenzie Gregg

Resistance Christine Axworthy

Untitled Natalie Eitel

Summer of Mom Maureen Armstrong

* Jeff Emtman

Midnight Graffiti Jason Fernandez

Hummingbird cade Schmidt

* Jeff Emtman

My Motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Mirror Aimy Enriquez

Untitled Katie Hudak

New Eyes Rachel Tomchick

My Body Is Not My Temple Stephanie Bueler

Daffodil Stacey Williams

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