Issue 13 Extended

art by susan rodgers

THE DUMPLINGS

Executive Editor

Creative Director

Senior Layout Director

Art Director

Managing Editor

Head of Marketing

Outreach Director

Merch & Finance Director

IDEA Director

Mini-Zine Director

Bilquisu Abdullah

Victoria Chen

Ava MacDonald

Francesca Donovan

Serena Barish

Théa Jacquand

Angelena Bougiamas

Susan Rodgers

Sara Amar

Isabela Gomez

THE b-team

LAYOUT

Jr. Layout Directors

Natalie Price-Fudge

Madhura Shembekar {

Sophie Liu

Ariana Ng

Lauren Dennis

Alaina Anderson

Mai Wheeler

Francesca Hales

Alicia Owens

Priscilla Kim

Neha Malik

EDITORS

Kaitlyn Murray

Kathleen Felli

Isabel Corvington

Cosima von Baumbach

RESIDENT CREATORS

Sylvie Buckalew

Lexah Caraluzzi

Erique Perez

Meghan Hunt

Kevin Moreno

Logan Castellanos

Emily Hardy

Maddy Langan

Sara Amar

Lailah Mozafar

Nyalee Goodloe

Francesca Donovan

Alison Karki

Sofe Fennell

Akshadha Lagisetti

Sydney Hudson

Sarah Lin

CONTRIBUTORS

William Leonard

Caitlin Frazier

Carrie Wang

Maliha Khan

Claire Bassi

Lin Henke

Aiganym Nurakhanova

Sofa Mahairas

Mirabai Sinha

Gwen Prince

Annika Bjork

Brittany Peng

Eryn Gold

Shay Pratt

Samantha Monteiro

Eva Andersen

MINI-ZINE

Leila Pagel

Kathleen Felli

Lindsay Khalluf

Ariana Ng

Natalie Price-Fudge

Evelyn Wiredu

Romy Abu-Fadel

Kathleen Felli

Yana Gitelman

Liana Wallace

Maya Gabby

Charlotte Taylor

Lindsay Khalluf

Camille Kelly

Bahar Hassan

Lena Deb

Victoria Chen

Sophie Burk

Caterina Lungo

OUTREACH

Emily Pitkin

Daniela Vasquez

Olivia Lebo-Planas

Christine Ji

Hana Chong

COVER artistS

Front: Maddy Langan

Back:

Georgetown Protects Racists

Delaney Don

Kate Unrath

Miriam Siegel

Clarissa Acosta

Hayley Young

Charis Suh

Evelyn Wiredu

WRITERS

Rachel Parks

Lauren Santoro

Valeria Canovi

Ines Goei de Piante

Camille Kelly

Christina Gomes

Fiona Cleaves

Lindsay Khalluf

Fiona Naughton

Claire Mucyo

Kalyn Ouk

Caroline Palermo

Lauren Rapella

MARKETING & SOCIAL MEDIA

Emily Kalyvas

Camille Boley

Grace Tourtelotte

Tiger Roedy

Sydney Worrell

Lia Gilleran

Elina Choi

Meliza Ozturk

Isabella Sicilian

Blake Bertero

Madelyn Kausch

Phuong Ha

Josie Ackell

Ina Quadrio Curzio

merch & finance

Alana Cenaj

TABLE OF CONTENTS TABLE OF CONTENTS

CONTent warnings

Self-harm

Self-image

Interpersonal

Sexual

The opinions expressed in Bossier Magazine do not necessarily represent the views of Georgetown University unless specifcally stated. All content is submitted freely by individuals and may not express the views of the Bossier Magazine staf.

Dear Reader,

I’d like to share a couple of fond thoughts on Bossier Magazine with you before you embark on your journey of reading. When I frst stepped onto Georgetown’s campus, I wasn’t sure which niche I would fnd myself most comfortable in. Or if I would be comfortable at all. I remember feeling overwhelmed by all of the choices for which path I would take in life, and in my time during college. Little did I know that Bossier Magazine would sweep me of my feet two months into my freshman fall. Since then, it has been a whirlwind of romance. A romance like no other. I truly have learned love in Bossier Magazine. I have learned love in the wonderful world of our creators and contributors. Bossier has wrapped me up in rapture and has made me a love struck fool. As you read, I hope you feel the love. I sure do, and I can’t wait to continue sharing the love with others. Enjoy reading.

Mwah,

Bilquisu Abdullah, Executive Editor

Dear Bossier,

In a black and white space, you are a spot of color. When I craved clarity, pushing against potential and possibility, you whispered that I might be okay standing right where I am. “Creativity, community, contradiction, color are alive here, with me,” you said. You introduced me to people that made me forget what I might gain from running from uncertainty, helping me realize instead what I’d undoubtedly lose. Over the past two years, you’ve calmed my anxieties and handled my trust with care. Bossier, surrounded by your radiance, I too am gaining the courage to paint a landscape entirely of my own. I believe I am not the only one you have taught to color with bold strokes, outside the lines. To everyone who has stained their fngers with Bossier’s vibrancy (including you, reader), don’t be afraid of an uncertain future; no number of wrong turns, standstills, or U-turns, no amount of water and soap, can ever wash these marks away.

For all of that and more, I am grateful,

Victoria Chen, Creative Director

PLAYLIST PLAYLIST

True Blue - Boygenius

Normal Girl - SZA

Scarlett - Holly Humberstone

How Soon is Now - The Smiths

Drips on a Wire - Peach Pit

Here Comes Your Man - Pixies

$20 - Boygenius

The Strangers - Saint Vincent

The One that Got Away - Katy Perry

Driving to Hawaii - Summer Salt

American Teenager - Ethel Cain

Tomorrow’s Dust - Tame Impala

Lady in the Darkest Hour - Kate

Bollinger

Blue Flower - Mazzy Star

ESTILAZO - Marshmello

Vanilla Baby - Billie Marten

Meet Me at Our Spot - The Anxiety

Me & My Dog - Boygenius

21 - Gracie Abrams

Romantic - Mannequin Pussy

Talia - King Princess

Spit on a Stranger - Pavement

Simulation Swarm - Big Thief

Christine - Lucy Dacus

melt - Kehlani

One More Weekend - Maude Latour

Detached - Lyn Lapid

Apocalypse - Cigarettes After Sex

1914 - Florist

Floating - Raveena

Make You Mine - PUBLIC

Moves - Suki Waterhouse

Utopia - Cult of Dionysis

Everything is Just A Mess - The

Here You Come Again - Dolly Parton

REWIND - TWICE

Close 2 U - Raveena

Everywhere - Fleetwood Mac

Turning Page - Sleeping At Last

You Are the Right One - Sports

meta angel - FKA twigs

Dear John - Taylor Swift

Resources

Bossier Magazine is dedicated to expansive spaces where folx can read, create, and consume in a way that brings them joy. With that being said, we acknowledge that life is not always that simple. That is why self care cultivation is something we also want our team to be dedicated to. Please read the list of resources below, and use them as you embark on your journey as a consumer, creator, and reader of our magazine. Self care always.

-The B-Team <3

{ DC/Local Resources {

DC Victim Hotline - 1-844-4HELPDC

If you’ve been sexually assaulted in the last 96 hrs, MedStar Washington Hospital Center (MWHC) is available for services at any time 24/7/365. To ask a nurse or an advocate your uestions frst or to receive a free ber ride to the hospital, call the ictim otline.

Ofce of Disability Rights (ODR) - One Judiciary Square (202) 724-5055

Family and Medical Counseling Services - (202) 610-3095

Community Action Group (CAG) - (202) 543-4558

{ Some Joy { Peptoc - (707) 873-7862

Happiness Hotline - (574) 832-4965

The Friendship Line - (800) 971-0016

{ National Hotlines { Crisis Text Line - Text HOME to 741741

National Sexual Assault Hotline - (800) 656-4673

National Suicide and Crisis Lifeline - 988

National Domestic Violence Hotline - (800) 799-

Take Me With Water

By Gwenyth Prince

What’s interesting about me besides my tragedies?

All of which I can count on one hand, thumb then pinky

Always drawing lines in the sand, waves be damned

But water does not obey the land

It weathers and it leaches, it perpetually teaches

Teaching me, showing me that reinvention is not the key

But when fghting for attention is all you know

You learn a thing or two about revivals

You become your own rival

Always out pacing, out proving, out doing

A mirror or a fnish line, you no longer know the diference

You do it for them, so they do not underestimate you

But at some point you no longer have something to prove

But Habits reproduce like rabbits, until all that you know dies hard

You never know when you’re in too deep because everything still feels shallow

So you dig yourself out until you bleed

Not knowing how to bury the hatchet with the lead

A girl with two homes never easily knows

Where she lives, where she dies

Does she die on a hill, does a hill know peace?

Will, ever, she?

Will she learn love if she was not born from it?

Can a child love the mother that it smothers?

Wombs and tombs become confused

When their keepers are artifcial

Their keepers are raised on welcomes that seem like dismissals

On schedules, on court mandates

Gavels unravel my existence

The Fourth of July every even year

Spent there but not here

My birthday like a knife fght

Armed to the teeth with sixteen candles in a sheathe

Highlighted lines determining my memory

For Christmas morning reference Clauses two and three

You have her Easter, I’ll have her thanksgiving

A knife fght that no one is winning

Doors become windows become walls Porcelain faces on porcelain dolls

The cracks in their masks taped of Like a crime scene holding back the public No one ever sees Through windows because windows are walls in disguise

Like a phantom surprise

I am not surprised When they ask for more Always more more more

Chewing of bigger bites of me than they can swallow I am a hollow pill

Take me only with water

Otherwise you’ll choke on me

Like choking daughters need saved by phantom fathers

The Heimlich maneuver like a tumor

A savior becomes a gravedigger

Like the womb becomes the tomb

Like the door becomes the wall

Like the girl that dies on a hill of two homes Becomes a hollow pill

Take me twice a day, only with water.

Art By Bahar Hassantash

Fleshed-out, Fleshed-in

I bring you to the dinner table with my friends. I fnd the Potatoes are more interesting. I remember Easter. I set down forks, spoons, bowls, Plates, napkins. My refection in the gravy. My hair combed; My brother’s matted to his forehead.

I could’ve spoken sweeter to him. I remember dying my hair red, Asking Him to like it.

The grimace came as food poisoning does: Let me give it another try and maybe it won’t make me sick this time.

He grimaces when you like yourself. He grimaces even when you set the table, And your hair is combed, and Your refection looks up at you in the gravy.

I bring you to the classroom with my peers, who are here because they respect women. They are here because we are equals, And we own our bodies. He marches, He raises His fst, But I can’t get a word in. Its Easter in August.

I walked to the grocery store the other day without a hood. It hurricaned. Walking in the rain, bangs stuck to my face, ...wet-dog-woman, dreaming, Smiling, loving, ...dry-dog-man, still grimacing. What can I enjoy?

What am I allowed to like, About myself, about this life?

I try to keep from romanticizing my sadness. I try to remember that misery is not poetic, It is just misery.

It is just womanhood, It is just the dry-dog-man again, With his fst raised.

It is just my refection in the gravy.

Sylvie Buckalew

So, I take time to prepare myself, To make, baste, and garnish myself. I see my refection in the mirror, Which is the gravy, Which festers under the Fluorescent bathroom lighting. I think about fungus. I think about the interconnectedness, The feeding into Something bigger, Something feminine. Women move like mold.

I bring you to bed with strangers, The whisper-talk, the writhing. He pities you, I can feel it in the way His hands Squeeze, and prod, and defame. I can taste it in the malnourishment Of my own body, A fullness never settled. A fullness begot to Him since the Garden. This can’t be what it’s about. The it that is the Woman, that is her rib-bearing, That is her getting-dolled-up, That is her getting-dolled-down, That is her Be careful, those are lace.

I am you, and we are her— The her who licks salty rain from the Corner of our lips, The red-haired her who traces The branches of our mycelium with The slope of her naked breast.

I am you, and we are her— I am woman, isn’t that sweet?

Isn’t that devastating, Alienating, Life-giving, Life-taking?

Isn’t that more than misery, More than our refection in the gravy?

TO LOVE FROM AFAR

My heart races, my smile widens, my eyes twinkle with the thought of you, the sight of you, the sound of you I live every day to return to you I work and try and weep and cry for the mere possibility of being back in your arms

Every hour with you is but a moment

Every moment without you is an eternity I struggle and yearn and wither and burn without you

For now, I feel you in my dreams and mourn you in my night mares I celebrate your romances even when they are not with me I cherish your words even when they are not for me I grieve your sufferings though they are not mine I share your hopes though they are not mine

I will traverse every road and swim every ocean to once more feel your head against my chest, hear your laughter in my ears, see your feet at my door I will endure pain, withstand derision, and overcome fear — all for the chance to have you near

Yet I persist, I toil, I sweat, I strain, I pray, I hope, I long and desire For as long as there is breath in our lungs and blood in our veins, we walk on this earth together

My love knows no limits, no bounds, no reason, no end.

Photography by Christine Ji

My love knows no limits, no bounds, no reason, no end.

Fairy by Caitlin Frazier

My love whose skin of cotton rashes mine

Whose heart of gold gets trapped in her chest

Whose teeth would cut into the earth a thousand times over

To get halfway to the moon

My love whose eyes set fres and tame lions

Whose eyelashes are clouds that water into the sea

Whose nose stops an avalanche of gentle streams

My love whose neck bears the fruit

Whose collar is more smooth rolling hill than jagged mountain

Whose back is the foundation of an oak tree

Whose back’s leaves had never fallen

And whose spine makes the top of the tree touch the ground

Bent in half but still growing

My love whose stomach is home

Whose stomach has a kitchen with new appliances and green cabinets

Whose stomach has a beagle pooping in it’s backyard

Whose stomach has an empty nursery “just in case”

My love whose sword of an arm is the tenderest weapon

Whose arm would chop the last crop from the barren soil

To feed the sun it’s profts

My love whose hands disagree with each other

Whose hands take diferent shapes

Whose right hand is the moon

Whose left hand is the sunken sea ship

Whose hands pray to the same sky

My love whose breast carries lake creatures

Whose breast of shallow waters draws its inhabitants closer to the surface

Whose breast is to swim and to drown of air

My love whose legs are drums

Whose legs contain jungles in their hair

Whose legs make the melodies of that jungle

Whose legs are the steady beat of life

My love whose feet are continually stuck in quicksand

Whose feet would move if they tried but they never will

Whose feet sink slowly, for her to never be fully submerged

My love whose heart is a fairy

Whose heart nests in the wood and lives of the land

Whose heart could fy away and make a new nest at any time

Away from mine

Collage by Francesca Hales

art by enrique perez

New York: A Re ection

By Carrie Wang

New York; Growing up, I always pictured myself going to school at NYU or Columbia. Something about this city has always fascinated me-- the eccentricity, the endless lights at night, the thrill of being in a city that quite literally never stops moving.

All roads led me to New York this winter break. Overwhelmed, confused, and hurting, it became an escape-- a distraction from the problems that I couldn’t face just yet.

First with my hometown friends. Crazy, reckless teenagers. Ten people squished in a one bedroom, one bathroom apartment in Harlem. Drunk on the streets at midnight. Smoking a blunt at Times Square. Strolling around SoHo with my best friend. Dancing at the bar. Dancing with strangers. Trying 油条 (Chinese fried dough) in Chinatown. Jakob’s stupid dances and incessant need to do the complete opposite of what I plan for the group. Giselle bandaging my sprained ankle. Ben on the streets. In the trash. Laughing at each other on the subway. An accidental trip to Brooklyn. God, I love my friends. ese are the people who have never made me feel small or unseen, the friends who can make me laugh when I cry, laugh until I cry.

Quick detour home for New Years, partying with some hometown friends, a few episodes of Singles Inferno and Bojack Horseman. And then right back on the bus to Manhattan.

Second with my grandma. My beautiful, courageous 外婆 that I grew up with. In the past it was always her taking care of me on vacation-trips to Boston, Tokyo, Shanghai were a regular part of my childhood. is was the rst trip we took where it felt like the roles were reversed, and I was taking care of her. I cherish every moment I spend with her. And this time, I was not staying in the heart of Harlem but on the 33rd oor of a swanky hotel above Grand Central. is time around, I had more time to explore. e Met. New York Library. 9/11 Memorials. Times Square. Chelsea Market. Korea-town. Central Park. Wall Street. Battery Park. Empire State Building. Soho and East Village. Columbia University, and the Hungarian cafe across the street. Every New York tourist destination you can envision, I was there. While the rst trip with friends felt a bit rushed, this time around I got to fully see the entire city.

I’ve discovered a lot about myself in New York. e problems that have kept me up at night throughout this past year feel foolish and insigni cant in the midst of the big city. at’s the beauty of New York; time doesn’t stop or wait for you if you aren’t ready. e city is ruthless, moving forward with or without you.

ere’s this poem that I’ve seen so many times on the New York subway that it’s ingrained into my memory: “I was always afraid of the next card the psychic would turn over for us, forgive me for not knowing how we were every card in the deck.” No matter what choices you make, the outcome will be the same-- don’t be afraid of what life throws at you, embrace the adversity.

I’m done running away from my problems and I’m done feeling sorry for myself. I’m done hurting, and more importantly, I’m done hurting others. 2023-- with a new year comes new opportunities, new places to be explored, new friendships, new heartbreaks, new experiences. I’d be lying if I said part of me wasn’t scared out of

• Some people you just have to love from a distance

• Don’t beg for people to stay

• Some things will never be okay and you just have to accept that

• A joint should not be $15

Here are my main takeaways from 2022... my mind, but now, I’m also a bit excited. New York City; thank you for the memories and the lessons.

Entangled by Maliha Khan

I saw a mystic today, She reminded me of you.

The curls of her hair, Reminded me of the waves over your chest Curtains over your bare breasts they fall.

Her hollow cheeks, Like the craters of your smile, Hint starvation.

The empty bowl in her hand Urged me to fll it, Like your arms seek my embrace, I cannot satisfy the hunger of either.

The grains I carried, spilled on ground as she fell in front of me, Someone threw a stone at her.

The sight of her naked skin was too much for the lustful eyes surrounding us. They couldn’t have her, So they accuse her of immorality.

When they befall me, They don’t see immodesty. But the day I declare my passion for you, I’ll be a whore too.

stargazingbysusan roberts

knowin by olivia

lebo-planas

by Romy Abu-Fadel

never smile at a poet for they will see the sun and stars

never touch a poet for electricity will course through their veins and into yours

never kiss a poet for they will taste heartbreak on your tongue

never fall in love with a poet for they will surely make a poet out of you

i have been made

a poet

InMe ThereisYou

ByKathleenFelli

It’s a pity that girls are taught to be nothing like their mothers. In an attempt to ft ourselves into a patriarchal world, we conspire with our fathers, brothers, and uncles to ridicule and shame our mothers.

I have been guilty of the misguided desire to distance myself from my mother. But, as I grow older and experience my frst loves, heartbreaks, trials, and triblations,

I realize that I am more like my mother than I thought, and I would not have it any other way.

As Leo women, my mom and I are celestially obligated to be fercely loyal to our loved ones. There are very few things that we wouldn’t do for the ones we love, including but not limited to: booking fights, giving rides, and providing constant emotional support. An innate pride in being emotional frst responders lives within us.

My mom and I must be right at all times. This confdence in ourselves is not born out of arrogance, but rather a belief that we have done our intellectual and virtuous due diligence to believe what we believe.

Our attention to detail is the type that will make you rip your hair out. We relentlessly question a misplaced fork or why you said that you can do the laundry rather than saying that you will. The tone of your voice can convey a different universe from the content of your words. While granular and seemingly insignifcant, my mom and I can never divorce ourselves from the feeling that every act, every word, every breath has meaning.

We also have a love for Julia Stiles. Meaning: we love the type of movies where the jokes are corny, the romances are cheesy, and the endings are happy. It’s low-brow and doesn’t require any critical thought. But after a day of keeping the planets that surround the sun of your life in orbit, it’s nice to live in a world where all ends well.

Are we stubborn? Yes. But, we hope that everyone will see through the stubbornness and fnd our softness. We fght because we care, because we fear that no one else will care if we don’t.

As I navigate the uncertainties of the rest of my life, I hope that I will continue to take after the woman who has given me everything and embrace my inheritance. Until then, it will have to be enough for me to say:

Ma, in me, there is you.

Still Life

By Serena Barish

I took the metro by myself today And I was so proud that I did it

I saw a Manet painting that I really liked Oil on canvas And I felt it inside of me

Still Life with Melon and Peaches

I don’t know

There was something about it. I thought to myself

That maybe I would really love A still life with melon and peaches A God doesn’t I think I like those That capture that Instead of Spinning Spiraling Taste that life It made me That I can’t

“In another life, I would have loved Maybe there Who Just sinking her Who I bet that version I bet that version of me thinks no I bet that version She plays piano, she And that version of me I bet She is good enough I bet she doesn’t

I bet her pants don’t squeeze I bet she can do eyeliner hands don’t shake And I bet she can And she responds And people always I bet she knows the meaning of

still life

doesn’t that sound nice? those kinds of paintings that kind of fowing beauty of the spewing

Spinning

Spiraling leaves in my mouth think of that line can’t quite remember loved just doing laundry and taxes with you” there is a me out there

Who is happy her teeth into peaches leads a still life version of me thinks she is pretty me doesn’t cry at night when she no one is looking version of me smiles at strangers she got around to her to do list me keeps her eyes open in pictures she is smarter enough to fx the world doesn’t feel undesirable squeeze her stomach too tight whenever she wants because her shake all of the damn time can concentrate with ease responds to texts on time always laugh at her jokes meaning of contentment and the taste of enough

Because in another life

I would love a still life with melon and peaches In another life I would revel in stillness Oil on canvas

But that is not my life

And I’ll take the metro alone I’ll crawl into the same bed Dreaming of my life in brushstrokes

Photography By Camille Kelly

Cum for me

by So e Fennell

E.H.

I am sealing this work these words your actions to you

to the people who hear themselves in my words and are brought back to their own experiences– I see you and I am with you always.

Cum for me– I choked out these words not as a cry of desire but as a plea

Cum for me– Not because I wanted you to get off – but because I wanted you to fnish and exit my body just as fast as you had entered it

Cum for me– Not because I wanted to know you felt pleasure in fucking me - but because I wanted, I desperately needed to stop your skin from touching mine

Cum for me– How did you not hear the urgency in my words?

Cum for me– How did you not notice I couldn’t bring myself to look you in the eyes?

Cum for me– How could you not tell that the resistance and friction of the condom against my dry insides was a biological indicator that I was not enjoying this – that I did not want this?

Cum for me– Not because I wanted the comfort of aftercare but because every time you touched me I recoiled further into the feeling of disgust

Cum for me– Did I consent to this?

Cum for me– I was the one who asked you to come over

Cum for me– I opened the door

Cum for me– I didn’t say no.

Cum for me– I never said yes

Cum for me– You just started touching me

Cum for me– I didn’t invite you into my bed, you told me to get on it

Cum for me– I didn’t take off my clothes. You did.

You came, and I maneuvered myself out from under the weight of your body I turned over and covered myself– but the blanket offered little comfort as I knew there wasn’t a part of my body that you hadn’t touched.

I waited for you to leave– but you didn’t You asked if you could get the lights so we could sleep

… I didn’t know what to say– I felt like I couldn’t ask you to leave because it wasn’t polite.

All that pleading for nothing.

Begging you “cum for me” for nothing.

I made myself as small as I could in my twin sized bed so that as little of my body touched yours as possible I stared at the wall

I stared at the wall as I listened to the cicadas outside my window I stared at the wall as I watched the shadows slowly shift as the hours ticked by I stared at the wall as I felt your body move in my bed– each motion reminding me that I was laying next to an intruder that I had let in

I stopped staring at the wall just long enough to pretend I was asleep in the morning so you would leave without talking to me

When I fnally got out of bed I saw that you had left the condom on the foor. The condom you had ready in your front pocket even though I had never mentioned sex The condom you had pulled out not two minutes after you had walked through my door. The condom that had rubbed me so raw I found blood in my underwear. The condom full of your cum that I had begged for and belittled myself for.

I threw it away and got in the shower. I tried to wash away the night before but every time I closed my eyes to stand under the water, I saw your body on top of mine

I tried to focus on the sound of the showerhead squeaking that I had complained about so many times before– but there it was, louder than anything else– cum for me

Banging itself relentlessly on the walls of my brain– cum for me

Written between the lines of the story of a bad hookup that I told my roommates– cum for me

Choking me in the back of my throat as we made eye contact on campus– cum for me Reminding me that after the last time- I told myself I would never let this happen to me again– cum for me Cum for me Cum for me

among the tips handed to her with a wink laid a routine previously unfamiliar: daily interactions with men, not in her kitchen or a bed or a subway platform, no yelling or pushing, heart racing only from co ee.

reciprocity, like she’s their daughter with no baggage, born yesterday and they’ve not yet paid tuition, like she’s their friend who’s never cried to them, never tried to kiss them at a party when the boy she really wanted wasn’t there.

a woman not required to be grateful or naked or grateful and naked, who can just be good. clean slate, room for grace.

on her last day he brought her a gi , a curious gaze, not hungry.

the mountain you drive past on a highway and identify as a matriarch, protector and provider for all things in her domain, unmoving, her own ecosystem.

Complements

by: Deb Lena

a collection of books, one full, three empty, ready to be lled, to take on her shape. a collection of commas to symbolize connection and continuity, a creator of things, a force to observe, an ancient historical site begging to house a museum, a meeting of elemental metaphors, timeless and growing, grounded, oating, a branch on the ocean, a stream down a hill.

the pair of eyes into which alice once fell, the eyes of eve, into which man will always fall, tunnels holding light, evil, restraint, begging spheres, pleading darkness, mirrors for those who seek blame.

she knows now:

she does not need to be a child to be worthy of protection, nor an adult to be worthy of respect, she is welcome to rest in the middle and let the current move her along, very slowly, and she knows she won’t drown because we are watching her, and because everyone knows she knows how to swim.

Eyes of

Eve By: Yana Gitelman

my bloods too thick to belong in one body tell me

where does Jewish and Black t on your census?

I asked my mom for más leche instead of more milk little girl in Tokyo with plump braids and caramel skin what avor would you taste if you put me in a melting pot?

would you be willing?

to taste my avor to be confused and perplexed by my skin selling secret of the white Jewish grandma in my veins too white for the Black kids, and too Black for the white

I want my daughter to swim in the buttery smooth melonin that covers her body and be proud to yearn for a history that was erased of ancestors that I can’t trace because a white man ripped it away from us want Spanish words to dance con rima y consonante just like my mother taught me, and my brothers

I want her to know the crevices of her body kiss the frame that it holds the snap crack of her curls and love everything that isn’t white about it want her to love that the ber in her will never t

blood too thick to belong in one body like sometimes I’m really not Black enough like if you dropped me in the hood

I wouldn’t know le from right wouldn’t know the Black movie that everyone grew up on I can see something break in my Dad for pouring more sugar in my mix than cocoa powder for going to see musical theatre more times then we spent the day on the couch watching BET

like how do class and my Blackness coexist? and how much can wanting something better for your kids distract you from dropping them for an hour in a purely Black community my Dad like DJ trying to mix something with just enough of everything but my bloods too thick

yeah my Blackness is broken but whose is whole? like my mom told me about agave and now I use that instead of honey but I hide that bottle buried in the cabinet sure to never let it slip out my mouth in Black company bougie

tell me where does Black and agave nectar sit on your census? like yeah, I gotta start at the bottom and work my way up when I comb my hair but my edges don’t need to be told twice to lay down like how many times another Black girl look at me and see something that I didn’t even know my body could hold

how many times I didn’t feel pretty but had no right to being light skin

like how one time in middle school I turned light skinned slave catcher told the teacher on some Black girls twerking on the jungle jim and knowing I couldn’t twerk and thinking THEY were dirty I told the teacher got them in trouble and there I was transported back to where my Master wanted me to be light skinned in the house, hating on anything darker than me even my sisters this too is in my blood childhood re ects a world that is broken back at us

claiming something that was broken stepping into the present holding on to the things that broke you

ecting on who you were in relation to who you are this is a path that leads forwards without excuses for who and what you are and who and what you once were

reclamation this blood thick

Jewish and Black Blackness broken Spanish randomly rolling o my tongue a little too much sugar missing out on some cocoa powder

reclamation

I claim this blood knowing its faults my blood

too thick to belong in one body but my blood my blood

reclamation

“crackle after the flames die.”

We spark up, vanish into blackness And when we link again I go home smelling of campfre With no embers in sight.

It’s all ash, in every season And I work it, Graying nail beds sowing, Nutrients giving way To new, green shoots,

And my laugh, my love, My laugh is a little like Rogue sparks twirling upwards as the fames die, Continuing in a smear Of old growth pines -blueberry bramble shrine.

In fact, shy shrubs bear their best Fruit three years post-blaze so I am a blue-purple thing yearning To be plucked

As autumn crests.

Gospel: JC

Bless the boys who are not boys And the girls who are not girls. Bless their union -A flurry of skirts,

Bless the hand clutching at An unfastening bonnet, Bathe their tangle of legs in light, Bend them over each other Like patrons at the altar,

Bless power’s pendulum, Bless how we have always Been naked, Bless how we become Small, breathy deities, Gods of yes

More Harder

Bless the benediction: Lovers slumped

Writing by Maya Gabby Artwork by Olivia Planas Lebo

In a reddening room.

Survivor’s Litany

Sometimes I am ok. Other times the overwhelming Politic of my body Is all I can smell

As in: you cannot survive alone. As in: they will ignore the rot, Constant decay of my smile

Steady drag of I don’t believe you. I’m so sorry that happened to you. We will release the report on _____. No exceptions can be made for the deadline. Hoya Saxa!

Where “reasonable accommodation” means Try not to inhale. Some of our students smell.

To be a survivor here is to be Robbed of future

Treading water

Crying oceans

And letting The rivulets

Outrun your grief.

Maybe if this was actually A space for Black survivors, We’d be steeped in laughter

Stripped of professionalism

And crammed into somebody’s kitchen.

What I mean to say is:

Close the meetings

Cut institution out (when have they ever known how to care for us / never) Choose nurture, Arms to hold.

Soften yourselvesSurvive.

know me, love me

olivia lebo-planas

you talk to me like you know me jesus, no you don’t.

you know what it feels like to run your hands down my back, to grip the nape of my neck

you know my messy hair and whatever angle i choose to show you i am not my skin or my bones, i am not my voice or my comforts.

i know my home in a hundred ways

i know the hollow aching as i sit on the subway, remnant mascara on my cheeks and my stomach empty

i know the corner i wait on for him, the corner i wait on for them, the corner i wait on for her

i know the white, gold, silver car doors that have opened for me an he ear an er lo e ha i ha e el s e in of o ar e street

i know that 16th st mission is my favorite stop because it reminds me of the nights i would go into the city and write an i no i iss ea in rozen o r a hriss fel s e en though it was too cold) because i had his jacket to keep me warm i know that the city meant breathing slowly in the bathroom and pulling her close to say sorry an ha in a horri le ear ha i o l lose her i i

i’ve watched my dad play guitar at the i hotel watched my mom on the union front lines a he ro her e in f h s al a s e l e all he le ons of he ree in he a ar e ore e moved, twice! this is my home. not yours.

i no he o or o a lo i e an he s en o afle ones i know that i have felt like god and felt like soil beneath the soles of another

i won’t wake up in the cold december nights and feel her warmth

i know we won’t burn blue in san francisco anymore and god, i know myself! i swear, i know myself.

i know that not a single drink at a dim bar will make it easier

do you know that? do you know me like that?

“Got Shit On By a Bird; Experienced Nirvana”

“Lies I T dMyMoth ”

“A Scientifc Analysis of Authentic ity in Pleather Pants and BeReals”

“Friend Crush”

“There are Ants Crawling Underneath My

Skin (I Have Adult Acne)”

Recycle,“Reduce,Reuse, Shop”Online

“S*tuationship”

Home and Threw Up”

“Showed up for the Photo, Went

An Artist And Not A Corporate Sellout

“Leather, Denim, Loneliness, Alcohol and Other Things I

Have Worn as Jackets”

Titles I Would Give My Work If I Was

LEERS OF THE CREEPING MEN

BY CLAIRE BASSI

SHIT. Only good things tomorrow. All good things tomorrow. But my god, right NOW!

Another girl getting up and telling her story, another, another, another. Dark hands in the fading light, to take and steal in the stealth of night.

“I feel bad for the BOYS.”

Holy SHIT. For the boys? For the BOYS?

Two days ago my best friend was groped with no one to see, Katy was grabbed as she fell asleep, Abby gaslighted into another fucking blowjob. Our HANDS ON OUR KEYS, our EYES ON EACH OTHER as a safety net against the leers of the creeping men.

From AGE TWELVE you told me that girls had to be careful, that I couldn’t wear shorts too short, that I could never leave my drink uncovered, that I couldn’t go running at night because of those grasping male hands. A push and a shove as we duck and run, as we are objecti ed and lied to and YOU FEEL BAD FOR THE BOYS.

SHIT. YOU do this to us. Our smiles as we dip away uncertainly, our wish to smooth things over and to please, our careful observance of all the rules LIKE YOU SAID and still the boys, they take. NOT ALL BOYS, but they should have the decency to listen, to feel a little bit bad for our collective experience, and as a whole, STOP HARASSING THE GIRLS. My GOD, I am livid.

What is the issue with being heard? Have we not seen the pervasive culture of the men against the women in a small space and in the dead of night? Have we not even tried to reckon with the pain that these stories have?

I do not feel bad for the boys. I have hope that they will change, but I do not feel bad for the boys.

SHE CREATES

Lin Henke

The r time I called God “She” I felt dr k, dr k for six pages of a phi losophy p er I thought would bore me to tears

“There are no obvious reasons again God spreading Her divine good ness through creation. God necessar y creates because She is perfe ly rational as well as perfe ly good. Any perfe ly rational being, wh faced with a oice that has good reasons ‘for’ d no reasons ‘again ’ mu realize that there is really no oice at all. For God, to create is rational d y alternative is surd. There are no impositions on God’s free w l, d no one is forcing Her h d. She w lingly creates the world because She is perfe ly rational, d a oice with only b e ts d no negative consequ ces is logically necessary.”

She necessar y creates. She is free, d She necessar y creates. Those words permeate my esh, s d the divine from my ngertips to my toes. I feel giddy, l e I’m falling in love. I feel something big in my e , the s e thing that hit me wh I saw a prea er in sparkly heels d red lip i

She!

C you imagine su joy? The s e joy I feel coaxing sprouts from the gro d. She feels it too, coaxing my esh from du . Isn’t it so exciting you w t to tell the whole world? Isn’t it so beautiful you w t to sob over your mediocre ph osophy midterm?

God is know le d my erious d far away etc., etc., etc.

It’s all wrong. As soon as I met Her, I knew Her joy.

“Cody herself, opening the flm with the line “Hell is a teenage girl,” sought to simultaneously explore both the hellish impact of a high school landscape on a girl’s self-esteem and the painful, paradoxical way young women are consigned to uphold the very same hegemonic ideals that keep them down.” -Chad Collins

dress and collage

by sarah lin

when the cold air grazes their cheeks, and the rain water soaks their soles, it is the comfort with each other that they seek, as they let the silent dusk invade their souls.

with scintillating glimpses and desperate hearts, the shadow of their home hides their secret despair. those who are hurt know how to do their part, and pain shoots through her as he pushes back her hair.

the ashbacks stop the clock, they both betrayed and stabbed one another. but the memories invade their thoughts, and their bodies still face one another.

the stars and moon look down upon them, disapprove and know that these are dangerous moments. but the empty lot ignores their mistakes, it is later that they will cry and lament, mourn the end of a dream, when the crumbling world did not matter, when the only care in both their lives, was smiling and enjoying each other.

a momentary fraction of each of their lives is now a microcosm of the agony they ache with. it is a solitude barely grasped by the white neon lights, and instead buried in the darkness of a myth.

Cool girl is hot, cool girl is game.

Cool Girl

Aiganym Nurakhanova

Cool girl is hot, cool girl is game. She races you down the street, thrifts the best clothes, and doesn’t watch what she eats

Cool girl is hot, cool girl is game. She doesn’t mind breaking rules, staying up all night, or skipping school.

Cool girl is hot, cool girl is game. She asks you to teach her how to box, her Instagram is super casual, and she drinks whiskey on the rocks.

Cool girl is hot, cool girl is game. Knows all the Kanye songs, despises “Pride and Prejudice;” your girlfriend and her don’t get along.

Cool girl is hot, cool girl is game. She’s “not looking for anything serious,” sleeps with your roommate on the down low, and doesn’t need to try to be mysterious.

Cool girl is hot, cool girl is game. She lets everyone crash at her place, parties every single weekend, (but it doesn’t affect her body or face).

Cool girl is hot, cool girl is game. I’m not her and that’s okay.

ART BY SARA AMAR

photography by jean-paul nguyen

by Isabella Williams

1.You will develop several rituals.

2.You will begin collecting burial goods.

3. You will rip home from the rafters and warmth from the foorboards. hey will fnd tally marks scratched in the cinder block stacked square like sonnets.

4. You will fnd so much love you won’t know where to put it. hrow it on the pile on your nightstand spit it down the sink.

5. You will walk around with love like a stone in your shoe.

6. You will have thoughts meaner than you ever believed yourself capable of.

7. You will wring your youth around the neck before it can get away this time. Nail its feet to the ceiling bleed it for every minute it’s worth while the bleeding’s still hot.

8. ’ve spent much of my life peeling silence from the corners of my house. ’ve spent much of my life scraping solitude from the wallpaper so had something to look at like it was mine.

9. hen left the house had nothing else that knew what to do with. ’ve tried to pry the hunger out of my chest and ’ve done a real hack job of it,

(The Ultimate Post-Lockdown College Survival Guide to

12.You will drag it back to your room and eat it there.

13.The appraiser will look at it through a big piece of glass and say this is fool’s gold. This is just pity.

14.You will say you knew that, you just wanted to show somebody.

15. You will fnd religion again. Nothing less than abject worship is enough to hold your attention anymore.

16.You will take the scenic route most days.

17.You will fall in love. You will run smash-and-grabs through the windows of your new friends’ lives. You will tear every word in reach from their homes from their hands from their cupboards all the while apologizing for the mess you’ve made but you won’t stop. You will drag it back to your room and eat it there.

18. You will carve yourself a spot on their couch and fnd that spiteful disregard for the house does not necessarily earn you comfort in it.

19. You will sit on their foor and fnd that veneration won’t either.

20.You will sneak chips of bone from them and call yourself a thirdclass relic.

21.Most of the time you have will be lost to friction and heat transfer. This is inevitable.

22. You will briefy consider giving yourself a nickname. You will quickly

Artwork by: Charlotte Taylor

Lia Gilleran

30.You will fantasize about giving them one of yours as a grand gesture as a penance as maybe communion. You will remember you don’t have anything in the chest but hunger still, that’s why you started taking stuff in the frst place.

31.They will not ask about the missing rib so neither will you.

32.They might not even notice it’s gone. Are you sure you got the

You will fnd other things to beg forgiveness for, it’s the only currency you know. They will indulge you every time. You will never learn to place gratitude before guilt.

34.You will develop several rituals.

35.You will blaspheme them all.

You and I Fell like waves

So , sweet, seductive, Inevitable.

Wet heat clings to me, Dances down the slope of your back, Whispers in your hair, So dark it turns black.

How easily will I go? Slipping, Choking, Drowning.

All I see is your eyes.

Beautiful boy, Greek god, omnipotent, Why can’t I see? You’re nothing but a disguise.

You taste like home. You taste like him. Little liar, Figment of my imagination.

Wait and watch, While I steal something back, Paint it all in black.

Come sit and sip My little love potion, My poor heart Is acid in a dying ocean.

I know you’ll go, Catch me, Break me, Eat me alive.

I’m afraid to meet your eyes.

I don’t like you, I don’t love you. I swear I don’t Feel anything at all.

Bloody, broken, I’ll ruin a good canvas. Pin me to a wall, Where someone can decide I’m beautiful.

your twenties are for healing

bilquisu abdullah

before I turn twenty

i can say I’ve lived a full life

i’ve seen many sights

i’ve had countless cries that still live inside my mind

i can say that i’ve aged and felt the rage of women before my time in numbers you can’t gauge

i can say i’ve sat on a roo op and thought of the drop

i’ve pulled my mind back from the edge

and have let it linger as a reminder that i am a survivor

i’ve lived beyond my years facing many fears

i’ve seen the other side and watched the moon change the tides

so when i write my bucketlist

i’ll think of this

collage by ava macdonald

your twenties are for healing.

How can language and its con nes ever do justice for the homemaker, who gives her peace, gives to know herself, and gives every piece of herself that she knows.

e woman well-acquainted with the pit in her stomach reminding her to check on dinner before it burns or to kneel before a picture of the mother of her Savior before she sleeps or to turn on the radio and check that her son isn’t the subject of the night’s local news.

And when his future is now a campus two hours away, she regrets never learning how to drive and begs him to commute.

“

ere are bad people out there, they’re not like us, why do you want to leave me?” And when the begging doesn’t work – and why should it, he’s not a child anymore – she nags God instead of him. Her story appears to be one of how she’s been worked to the bone and to the soul, a story that fades out with her standing alone with her aging husband, her aging thoughts, and her aging habits ve plates out for dinner every night or refusing thank yous, instead telling me to study hard and be smart like my father.

But that is not where she ends.

She tells me θα είσαι μεγάλη: that I’ll be one of the greats.

I think she believes that she can fan ames in me big enough that nobody can stomp out.

I wonder if she knows that is what she does when she sings and dances and gossips and prays or when she greets people she’s met once, extends dinner invitations that never expire, and remembers to ask how their mothers are doing.

Her life, the lives of our homemakers, deserves celebration.

ey deserve to know themselves outside of a four-walled house and to know justice, not only by witnessing it in the generations a er them and not only in writing.

Pink Pair in a Central Park Stroll Hana Chong