BOSSIER
The B-Team
LAYOUT DESIGN
Ariya Shah
Blake Bertero
Caroline Chou
Ema Eguchi
Evalyn Lee
Francesca Hales
Giselle Rasquinha
Natalie Price-Fudge
Sasha Belland
RESIDENT CREATORS
Gaby Ahl
Grace Ye
Sarah Lin
Sofie Fennell
Sophia Rose Monsalvo
Sydney Hudson
Valeria Canovi
DIGITAL PLATFORM
Ayushi Das
Cecilio Sandoval
Isabella Gagliano
Isabella Liu
Jelina Liu
Jenna Tse
Seoyoung Kim
EDITORS
Amy Wany
Anouk Hirano
Cait Jenkyn
Claire Kovac
Claire Tsui
Dolce Coury
Emma Albro
Isabel Corvington
Meghan Hall
Paige Gilbert
Victoria Cheng
WRITERS
Angel James
Caroline Palermo
Camden Baucom
Christina Gomes
Claire Mucyo
Callie Mitchell
Fiona Cleaves
Isabella Pamias
Lauren Santoro
Meredith Monnich
Nikita Tatachar
Rachel Parks
Sonal Sharma
Sonia Fan
MARKETING & SOCIAL MEDIA
Alaena Hunt
Annabelle Rogers
Claire Chen
Emily Pitkin
Isabella Paganini
Josie Ackell
Larissa Johnson
Lauren Frank
Una Mekic
Rachel Zhang
OUTREACH
Carmen Phillips
Charis Suh
Daisy Marquez
Evelyn Christina Wiredu
Jocelynn Singsiri
Julie Meneses
Kate Unrath
Liz Esteves
Tayoung Chung
Talia Karaahmet
MERCH & FINANCE
Claire OzekiKelsey Perriello
MINI-ZINE TEAM
Alex Lalli
Arielle Benjamin
Claire Kovac
Rams-Lyne Thomas
The B-Board
Lailah Mozaffar
Ava MacDonald
Bilquisu Abdullah
Jasmine Criqui
Thea Jacquand
Camille Kelly
Fiona Naughton
Angelena Bougiamas
Saeed Jude Samra
Sara Amar
Alex Lalli
Robin McFarland
Isabela Gomez
Leila Pagel
Executive Director
Creative Director
Outreach Director
Layout Director
Head of Marketing
Art Director
Art Director
Managing Editor
IDEA Director
IDEA Director
Mini-Zine Director
Merch & Finance Director
Digital Platform Director
Digital Platform Director
Contributors
Alex Lalli
Aniya Harris
Ariya Shah
Autumn Davis
Ava MacDonald
Bilquisu Abdullah
Blake Bertero
Camille Kelly
Claire Kovac
Evalyn Lee
Elena Soler-Lopez
Ema Eguchi
Emmie Maisel
Fiona Naughton
Gaby Ahl
Geffrey Love Jr
Gianna Dantoumada
Grace Ye
Isabel Corvington
Isabella Pamias
Jasmine Criqui
Jayla Wideman
Joella Kiondo
Jorja Smith
Josh Grundhoefer
Josie Ackell
Kathleen Felli
Lailah Mozaffar
Lauren Santoro
Lindsay Khalluf
Mara Goldstein
Mia Boykin
Nikita Tatachar
Rachel Parks
Rams-Lyne Thomas
Saeed Jude Samra
Sara Amar
Sarah Lin
Sasha Belland
Serena Barish
Sofie Fennel
Sonia Fan
Sophia Monsalvo
Sydney Hudson
Thea Jacquand
Una Mekic
COVER ARTIST: SARA AMAR
TABLE OF CONTENTS TABLE OF CONTENTS
Masthead
Table of Contents
Editors’ Letters & Playlist
Giselle Rasquinha
Sophia Monslavo
Rachel Parks & Gaby Ahl
Ema Eguchi
Ava MacDonald
Sofie Fennel
Blake Bertero
Jasmine Criqui
Camille Kelly & Valeria Canovi
Blake Bertero
Grace Ye & Ava MacDonald
Evalyn Lee
Caroline Chou
Jasmine Criqui
Fiona Naughton
Ariya Shah
Sydney Hudson
Ava MacDonald
Natalie Price-Fudge
Giselle Rasquinha
Jasmine Criqui
Francesca Hales
Ava MacDonald
Sasha Belland
Jasmine Criqui & Sara Amar
Jasmine Criqui
GAFAS
Sarah Lin & Camille Kelly
Jasmine Criqui
editor letters
Dear Bossier,
I can never truly articulate our relationship. Am I grateful to you? Do I resent you? I don’t know. You’ve stared me down as I glaze over, blank screen to blank eyes. You’ve told me your embarrassing secrets and, in return, I told you mine. You’ve seen beneath my varnish and I’ve been under your glossy film. I would say we know each other in some convoluted way. You’ve relieved the itches under my skin and I’ve given you another day to be perused. I am always so unsure of myself, but you’re always there to take another beating from me. Another haphazard output of my own craziness, another twilight date, just me and you. I haven’t been my best, and you know that. I’m sorry for that. But I know you’ll forgive me and we’ll play this dance again as I let you down in the end once more. I don’t know if I can say I love you. I hope you don’t love me. But we make things work. We always have.
Lailah Mozaffar Executive Editor
My Dearest Bossier,
I am permanently indebted to you. Georgetown would be a pre-professional hellscape without you. Without you, maybe I would have a consulting club. Who knows. So much of my identity has been formed around you and so much of my growth is attributable to you in all your steadfast glory.
I only have a few more things to ask from you. Promise me you won’t mind as I stumble over my words. Promise you won’t mind as I spit sentiments onto your pages, things I could never admit to myself. Promise me you forgive me for halfbaked spreads, half-baked poems, halfbaked meetings, and half-baked letters. Promise me that you’ll remember me with fondness in all my passion, malice, and apathy.
I love you,
Ava MacDonald Creative Director
| { | { | { | { | {
resources
Bossier is dedicated to expansive spaces where folx can read, create, and consume in a way that brings them joy. With that said, we acknowledge that life is not always that simple. That is why self-care and 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 DC Victim Hotline* 1-(844)-4HELPDC
*Free consultations and Uber rides to MedStar Washington Hospital Center are provided to those who have been sexually assaulted within 96 hours of calling the hotline 24/7/365.
Family and Medical Counseling Services (202) 610-3095
Community Action Group (CAG) (202) 543-4558
PSY - Gangnam Style (강남스타일)
The Cranberries - Dreams
Lizzy McAlpine - To the Mountains
Luna Li - Afterglow
The Japanese House - Lilo
The Growlers - Try Hard Fool
Flo Milli - Never Lose Me
Luna Li - Silver Into Rain
RuPaul - Cover Girl
Phoebe Bridgers - Smoke Signals
Dominic Fike - Good Game
SZA - Doves In The Wind (feat. Kendrick Lamar)
FKA twigs - papi bones (feat. shygirl)
Mitski - First Love/Late Spring
Lorde - The Love Club
Lila Dubois - eyeswideopen
Bad Bunny - Tití Me Preguntó
One Direction - Steal My Girl
Rachel Chinouriri - All I Ever Asked
Elliott Smith - Say Yes
Bakar - Hell N Back (feat. Summer Walker)
Mitski - Townie
Amaarae - Wasted Eyes
Lyn Lapid - july
beabadoobee - A Night To Remember
Madvillain - All Caps
quinnie - gold star
Hozier - Cherry Wine - Live
FKA twigs - tears in the club (feat. the weeknd)
Daniel Caesar - Japanese Denim
Lindsay Reamer - Lucky
Olivia Rodrigo - all-american bitch
Reneé Rapp - Not My Fault (with Megan Thee Stallion)
KAYTRANADA - Look Easy
Bad Bunny - Safaera
SOPHIE - Immaterial
The Sundays - On Earth
Djo - End of Beginning
BETWEEN FRIENDS - Really good cry
BoyWithUke - Problematic
Talking Heads - And She Was Kendrick Lamar - LOYALTY. FEAT. RIHANNA
Big Thief - Simulation Swarm
Rihanna - Needed Me
Frank Ocean - Solo
Mazzy Star - Halah
BROCKHAMPTON - BLEACH
Sammy Rae & The Friends - Talk It Up
Japanese Breakfast - Be Sweet
SZA - Smoking on my Ex Pack
Fleetwood Mac - Silver Springs - 2004 Remaster
SZA - Warm Winds (feat. Isaiah Rasha
The Bangles - Anna Lee (Sweetheart of the Sun)
Eliza McLamb - Modern Woman
Bad Bunny - Tití Me Preguntó
One Direction - Steal My Girl
Rachel Chinouriri - All I Ever Asked
Elliott Smith - Say Yes
b-team playlist
National Crisis Resources:
Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration 1-(800)-662-4357
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) 799-7233
National Eating Disorder Hotline (800) 931-2237
Joy Resources <3: Peptoc (707) 873-7862
Happiness Hotline (574) 832-4965
The Friendship Line (800) 971-0016
entering orchids by bilquisu abdullah
orchidshaveasapphicauraaboutthem. they’vealwaysbeenmyfavorite andIalwaysdescribedthemwithbeautyandaprominentpresence. yet, Ineverrealizedhowelsetheycaughtmyeye.
thepetals, howtheysprawl, revealingaluringlabellum thatisinvitingtotheone whogetsthatfar.
reigningaboveistheanthercap, cappingexactlythat, thecenterofpleasure. theanther.
withinhereliesthesecretoftheir growth,interlacing(s)andenticement toothers.
theovaryburieddeepwithin onlyallowsthoseakin.
withpleasureseekingtofulfill andseekingtobefulfilled. 6
SophiaMonsalvo
To be, to become
by Rachel Parks
Born red, raw, raging, five days late, fists clenched, grasping, reaching, Being.
Body keeps the score until it doesn’t anymore.
Rivers of blood painted white sand
Pink, the color of roses, of girlhood, of soft, pretty scars and nerves that scream underneath.
White stretch marks trace crayon tiger stripes on the inside of my thigh, growing, showing the signs, coloring outside the lines.
I am drowning in warm summer rain, licking my lips, racing through rivulets. Back home, floating out to sea
Crashing, rough and gritty, melting upward just to fall again and again and again.
God, I have already fallen again and again and again. Change is not for me. I just want
To be and dream only what I see and float only when I dream and gasp awake and watch a summer tan fade and dance a two-step and taste snowflakes on my tongue and doze through sunrises and race down sunsets and grow flowers and watch them wilt and grasp onto you while you grasp onto me and just have time To be. Time is an unbearable ruler. Body admits what I never will. I am a flickering flame. I am change.
i just miss my mom - pretty when
i cry
SAEED JUDE SAMRA
and i promise i won’t pick it up again i it up again so i throw it out so i it out and pick up my pen my pen because i miss my mom because i miss my mom
and i feel prettiest with my clothes on and i feel prettiest with on because i miss my mom because i miss my mom
i changed my bedsheets today i but when i lay back down but when i down it still smells like you it still smells you when i close my eyes when i close my eyes
i’m still cuddled in your arms i’m still arms
every hug connected across time across time
i’ve been running on star drip — i’ve been running on star — memories that decorate the string lights memories that decorate the hanging in my room in my room
she was the first person to see my stars she was the person to see my stars but you were the first you were the first to notice how beautiful they are to notice how beautiful are
i’m worried i’ll become like you. i’m worried i’ll become you. i love you so much, i you so much, but i can’t keep watching you but i can’t you ruin your life ruin life
i’ve surrounded myself i’ve surrounded with so many people with so many i can’t tell i which one i am anymore which one i am anymore
so i painted a portrait so i of what i saw in your eyes of what i saw in your eyes unsure of which colors to use unsure to use when i finished she said i looked beautiful but i couldn’t tell if she was talking but i couldn’t tell if she was about the portrait or me about portrait or me
i’m trying to find i’m trying find the boy who didn’t know the didn’t know what his name sounded like name on an English tongue on an
who learned to roll his “r” in the same year in the same year he learned to say he learned to say
i miss my mom i miss my mom because she knew him best she chose his name name and all the colors of his messy brunette curls of his curls and olive skin
i miss my mom i miss my mom because blood is thicker than paint because blood is thicker paint and her hands are more deft than any brush are more deft than
art by josie ackell
your pale skin was caught in the glimmer of my headlights, searching for any trace of life outside my own. i slammed the brakes and you were by my side, strapping yourself in, staring at the gray grass outside. when we got to my house, you toyed with my hair and kissed my lashes until they fell off, running away from a crime scene, mascara trailing behind. i tugged at your collar and that lock around your neck, but i couldn’t undo the buttons guarding your wounded chest. your pulse didn’t sing my name, and mine did not sing yours, but your left wrist sought my heart and grabbed it without l istening. i don’t know if my lashes will grow back, and i don’t know if those buttons will budge. but maybe i can wear more mascara, and maybe you can wear a t-shirt.
The Long Way Home
I take the long way through the town over. It’s the route my mother always took.
She would drive the long way even after she worked her shift at the print shop and then had to drive my sisters and I to the drop off spot with my father.
She took the long way through town.
Was it to spend six more minutes with us before she said goodbye for the weekend?
She would burn CDs for us to play in the car on the way. You should see her iTunes library. You might find her there if you know where to look.
She took the long way through town -- the music blaring. My sisters and I would scream the lyrics to her mix of 2000s rock and the sounds of the 70s that she was raised on. The kind of music that used to play on 94.5
She never sang with us - she says she can’t sing - but I still listened for each consonant that rang through her whispered mouthing. She was in each song, just as much as we were. We still scream it.
Cases and Cases of CDs each one a time capsule into my childhood. Each one a root of the music that fills my headphones as I walk down the street today. She took the long way through town. Was it to hear us sing the songs she had welcomed us to experience so lovingly all our childhood? Was it to point out the tree that grew split dyed leaves each spring? The tree on the last street you drive before turning onto the highway.
She took the long way through town and the scent of her black raspberry pomegranate perfume filled the car and my senses.
A smell so comforting it can bring me to my knees. I take the long way through town. I never used to after I got my license. I would detour down Chandler Avenue and onto the highway – bypassing the town altogether. Where did I need to get to so fast? Where did I need to get to so fast that I forsook the streets of familiarity?
I came back to my hometown. This time grown.
I was making my drive to the city when I reached the town over. As I approached Chandler Ave. my hand rose instinctually to the turn signal when a feeling from the deepest corner of my chest stopped my hand in its tracks. It called me to go straight.
Straight down the roads I had learned from the passenger seat of the gold minivan my mom taught each of us how to drive in.
I followed that feeling, for I knew it would lead me where I needed to go.
Where I needed to go.
I took the long way through town and I saw the green buds on that two tone tree just waiting for a day with enough warmth to bloom.
I took the long way through town and I closed my eyes for just a moment and I was filled with that black raspberry pomegranate – filled with the smell of her.
Of her hugs.
Of her morning ritual.
I took the long way through town and I turned the volume to 31 – the max on the minivan I had long ago grown accustomed to.
I took the long way through town and I screamed those lyrics. Placing stress on the consonants my ears had been attuned to picking up.
I took the long way through town and I could feel my mother.
I could feel my mother.
I could smell the mug of fresh black coffee that always sat in the cup holder. I took the long way through town and it was illuminated by the light of the moon. I looked up to the sky and I saw her. I saw her shining down on me, her magick weaving me through each turn.
I saw the moon who pulls my tides and sets the rhythm of nature.
I take the long way through town now. Every time.
Ritualistically.
The only place I am in a rush to get to is the closeness with which I can get to her. my Moon my Moon my Moon I take the long way home.
I am FULL of reckless vulnerability, giving away my affection UNCONDITIONALLY, I recklessly ABANDON all dignity and pride, I recklessly pay homage to the words you CONFIDE, Recklessly, I pay love for my DEBT, I would willingly cede it all, rather than pay what’s spent on REGRET. So come take a piece, even when NOTHING is left.
EGOS like mine will slough off the rest. My legs will move, the tide will RETURN, though the wind hurts my SKIN, and the sea salt burns.
no matter how brokenly the shards FALL, I’ll hold a high card, of having LOVED at all.
Reckless NikitaTatachar
By Jasmine Criqui
Old habits die hard. Especially the bad ones. No matter how much you grow up, I’m not sure if you ever grow out of some of those things. At the end of the day, I’m still just 16. Holding back tears while talking to my father, and listening to the same depressing music. I sit in the library and feel the tears welling in my eyes. I am trying to sift through Beyonce music videos for a research project but I can’t focus because there is a terrible heaviness all around. But I’m not 16 anymore and I’m not in my bedroom. This time I can leave. So I call my father and walk home. I sit at my desk and eat ice cream. I let him talk because I’m still afraid I will start crying if I open my mouth. Is being sad forever? Will I ever go longer than a month without falling back into it? Will I feel like this forever? I don’t know. I think maybe – probably. But I also think that might be okay. Even though I’ve been through the cycle of good and bad for forever, I still fall for its tricks. I don’t learn from my mistakes. Because when it’s good I always think it will be good forever. It’s the most evil trick in the world. I never learn my lesson. Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe that means that the good is really good. Maybe that means that the good is fitting and real and right. It is more of a war than a battle, but I would fight for eternity if only for a moment of good!
Iwanttodothis
Iwanttodothat
Myeyesmovealloverthescreen
Myhandsareshaking
Myheartisracing
Mymindstrollsaway
Iwishshedidn’tleave
Ireallyneedtounderstandhowtodealwithher
Despiteallherneeds
Ineedtofocusontheinside
ButIhavesomuchworkfrom theoutside
Myresponsibilitiesloseweightseeingme It’sapityI’munabletoevendowhat It’sapityI’munabletoevendowhat appeasesme
IthoughtIwantedtodothis
IthoughtIwantedtodothat
Onarollercoasterwheretheskyis asbeautifulastheland
Ifeeltrappedinthisglass-maderide
Iwanttogetoffbutstillkeepitin myhand
ButImightneedthismindtohide
HurryValewriteitdown
Maybebyreadingthewordstheybecomemoreimportant
Maybebyaddingundonebulletpointstheanxietywillscare itselfandescape
Maybelikeawaveonabeach
Maybemymindneedstocatchitbeforeitleaves Maybe Maybe
Justputitonadamnmaybelist
Howmuchenergyjusttomakeatick
Theletterswilltakeshape
Distractthemind
AndIwillbebehind
DidIwanttodothis?
DidIwanttodothat?
Becausemypassionsfillupmysoul Becausemypassionsfillupmysoul
TheideasofwhereIwanttogo
Theambitionsthatblendwiththeclouds
Butmyvoiceseemstonotscreamasloud
Theselettersseemtobecomingouttogether
WhiletheotherthingsIwasdoingwonderifIwillbeinterested inthemagain
Theydon’tknowhowmuchIwishIcouldsitwiththem
Leavingallmywondersinaquietsenseoffear
Mymindloosestrackofwhattomeisdear
Iwanttodothis
Iwanttodothat
Finding your feet quicker than the blizzard pulls your heat is no simple trick. You hike your socks, and tug your gloves, and push against the winds while the temperature ties you down. No matter what you do, you’ll feel like a fly in the tree trunk’s sap: all action frozen in the amber as you fall slowly and slowly behind. You won’t see the place you’re trying to reach, because there isn’t much under the winter sky. Apart from the wandering clouds who chose to touch the earth, and you. There’s supposed to be a way around it. They say-, to us 20-somethings-, that there’s a fire that burns deep, in every heart. It’s a flame wrought in hell and fury and love. I, and it moves you and your limbs and your mind with all the forceful cards that life deals. Can you imagine? A lithe flame, burning the dead-weight away, and carrying you through the heaviest fogs, the most shattering hail. Strong enough to melt the most dense snow. Light enough to bear safely in better days. They say that’s the one: the fire that moves you through the winds and the fury of the blizzard of life. But, like all fires, it needs you to build it. I was never trained to raise that fire. But I try to move, here and there, even as the cold clamps down.
Icy and biting, I think I lose all feelings. Still, I move in silence and sorrow and joy, hoping for all hell that I hold them in the same measures, while knowing that living winter is bringing the death of my heart. I fear I am broken in all measures now, barely breathing through the worst of these nights. And this damn snow won’t stop falling. I labor, for miles and miles, but I haven’t even touched the road to my place in life. Uncertain and heartless future, I wonder sometimes if my journey is another false god.
I never learned to lean, I never learned to live with change. Self-sabotage, a cruel mistress whispering her sweet nothings, begs for my devotion. If I close my eyes, I’ll do like Icarus and fly to the warmth of her control. Each day of this blizzard, it only hurts worse and worse, and I yearn for her protection, if not any protection. I want for the comforts of a home, a hearth. I want a mother’s hug and the peace of a thousand unsaid actions. Let the resin close over, and let my tomb seal. I can’t do it anymore.
But I should know better. I am already out the front door. For better or worse. I am alive and here. So I pick up one foot and push it out front, hoping the ground is steady. The Blizzard goes on, as always.
art by
Ava MacDonald
“I can’t walk through blizzards”
Nikita Tatachar
art by Grace Ye
Phoenix’s Dance
A better life, But the same expectations, More opportunities, But the same obligations. You are so lucky to have so much. And yet, I feel condemned.
Your words cut deep like knives, In the ways only you know to hurt me.
But your kisses and praise leave me elated, In the ways only you know to heal me.
Am I allowed to be upset With someone who gives me the world?
Who would give me their life?
Not just this physical life, But their whole soul, Their whole being?
I accept
That everything you say to me Is to make me better. Yes,
These scars make me stronger, But they also make me
So, so ugly.
We look to the phoenix, To praise her resilience, But she too Is burned by her flames.
But what can I say
When the embers I face
Are nothing compared to the infernos you’ve trekked?
How can I complain to you
When you’ve dulled your burn
As much as you know how?
I see your scars, But they could never make you ugly.
I just wince with pain
When I imagine what torturous blades
Could have delivered them.
And I will never blame you
For the marks you brandish
Or for the fact
That we must wear them together.
You are my phoenix And we will soar together.
To mom and dad by anonymous
Dead Things
by evalyn lee
The snow melted in the cemetery It always surprises me that the grass is still a vibrant green in the dead of January
Were you ever taught that it’s disrespectful to step over someone’s grave so I tip-toe in rectangles, hoping the dead won’t mind
I tend to save what’s dead for later I learned from my mom she freezes the green onions from the garden before they wilt and rot
I think about all the dead things in our freezer
Maybe you’re dead too The green of my summer That I bury Under all this cold.
Art by Josie Ackell
the natural corollary
by Thea Jacquand
when did i deviate, when did the colors warp? when was i led astray or did i take a step the wrong way, into a world where confines are blurred, but still just as strong, so you don’t know where it ends, all is gray.
in this world, clarity is a myth and the truth is lies, or rather insincere words told to mend the tears, told as a springboard for one’s ego to pierce the skies, told for icarus’s disciples to escape their despair.
in their path to what they think is joy, little do they know they pull everyone down for balance, painful gravity, they try to mask their misery, while the rest of us try to fight their bruised hearts, calloused.
the chain of events was wrong, the prediction went awry, the prophecy was cracked and the glass sphere shattered, was it the storytellers or the main character that told me the lie?
who is the one with the corrupted vision, who is the one who can malleate the timeline, who chose to weld the wrong metal, leaving the rest of us with a damaged design?
i bet daedalus had set the story straight, and yet somehow i can’t retrace my steps, to know where i went wrong, if it’s even my fault, leaving me now with endless worries and double checks.
oh one drew the maze, with the sense and passion to beat it, handed it to another in the palm of hands, no strings attached, just freely, a recipe for love, but somehow, tripped over broken bricks; are these stones truly golden, or just gilded in something stupid, something shiny?
There is a lot of laughter
After the alcohol is poured. Shots of cheap vodka, Orange juice, Sprite Pass
Down the throats of my Friends,
And I watch the red solo cups
Spill into inebriated conversation From the center of it all, My headphones on, The loneliness Eating me alive, Bloody and raw.
There is no music here, Where silence buckles to white noise Of this broadcast of thought, Reverberating, Traveling,
Trapped between the left and right canals Of sound digesting in my ears, Back and forth And back again, Leeching blood from my veins.
And I wonder,
Drowning in the noise, What is this place, this center?
INTHECENTER TIFO
And still, I watch them drink As I’m spit out the other end, Bloodless and bruised
Shaken and small,
Scrubbing my hands, my fingers, my nails
Desperate to be clean of this place— my place, To step out, just one foot, away— But it hurts, it burns, The silence, The laughter, While I remain On my knees— waiting, begging Alone
In the center of it all.
Crushing me small and smaller still, Molding me to fit within this husk of space, Too brittle to feel
The fading warmth As it drains Drains Drains.
The Moon’s Valor
Isabella Pamias
Adored, basking in the gaze of admiration, Grant me the celestial dreams, moon's invitation. She, a witness to every breath you did take, May your name permeate the ancestral balance.
By seas of sacrifice, a sacred offering laid bare In the name of glory, I will be home soon.
And upon her silvered surface, you shall rest, The moon, an echo of your valor, blessed. And the sun a glow cast from your chest. That when the moon rises again, like a recurring dream. You’ll turn into a tidal wave.
Howling so all ears can hear: Abandon all doubt, my dear, Nearing is your time to meet.
As you gather the fragments of your being, immersed in your dreams, remember that I, too, was born from your tears, just as you were born from mine. May the flowers that grow from your corpse transcend mere flesh and bones. Let them embody a profound excuse, so true
A justification for burdens borne and pains endured.
Art by Sasha Belland
You Gaze at The Tallest Trees in the World
Josh Grundhoefer
The largest mounds form endless woody tissue — twisting, and turning, like tightly woven rope, high into the sky. Emerging around them, crumbly bark covers each tree like a thick breading, from top to bottom. Yet, across the forest of trees, scattered across many mossy groves, it is almost too easy to spot the pasty red ink of the heartwood, hidden beneath a bark wrapping, washing over a split tree trunk.
Glancing at the splashes of dull red, you distantly recall that redwood trees are the tallest in the world. Their calls sound out and vibrate against the open air of the forest; their queries, claims, and challenges are loud — hastily shoved and stuffed under every rock, mound, and soil patch. The tallest and largest forests are always singing. You grimace at the bright ringing and low humming of the forest songs.
Although, at times, you recall the woods lay still. It is blissful quiet; a veritable sanctuary from sound; you chuckle at the miracle of it. Whirling leaves fall silent. Seeds dig into soils, hugged by hard outer shells, cushioning into clustered, tightly fit burrows. On the tallest tree in the entire forest, the leaves in the uppermost branches bunch into foliage, staying aloft in the air, kept up by lush, thick barriers of leaves and branched roots. Across the year, they shift and tread air like tiny water strider insects silently clambering over liquid-solid water.
The trees fall only when the closest needles to the trunk grow old. Or until you decide to cut them down. And, when they end up falling — they always do — you watch it fall to the ground. The greatest cacophony of silence falls with you. It is an orchestra of quiet. It is a beloved empty crash, and its soft splash often catches you with wet, red spruced splinters — so often, in fact, you can trace their scars on your face.
You gaze at the tallest trees in the world. on the ground.
Photography by Ariya Shah
04.28.23 poem 79
when the tears come pouring down under the torrential rain and dark cloud, they disintegrate, assimilate, and disappear leaving one only in the silence of the crowd
thea jacquand
stories fade and glances falter shaking eyes and aching hearts memories of a past life, past terror when the hurt only knew how to do their part
pottery by emmie maisel
and so when the chemicals permeate their blood and the burning tears bask their cheeks in salt, they try to forget the hurt and move on with the day, all while locking up their hearts and tightening the vault
and what’s worse than being truly alone in the silence of a quiet afternoon with no one there to grow the seeds that were sewn waiting for the numbness under the light of the reigning moon?
leave me alone and don’t hurt me anymore, keep your problems to yourself and away, i don’t wanna be hurt, feel the burst in my core, please, don’t come back okay, don’t plead me to play.
A Man- Stand Still
By SAEED JUDE SAMRA
make her feel like a princess and fuck her like one too
she doesn’t like that but it’s okay it’s her job whores get used to it
she dances naked in the dark her curves and curls are yours
own her it’s what she needs grab her by the hair uncoil her braids
show her what it means to be a women and stop fucking crying be a man
be a man a man knows what to do make your choice
and while you work out your stupid shit make sure she stands still waiting in that tower
be her prince charming she needs you weak man — MAN UP BE WHO SHE NEEDS
make sure she talks less but you need to speak up why are you so damn quiet use your chest why’s your voice so high
fucking faggot deer in headlights
i’m going to hit you with my car i’m going to kill you
one less fag one more man be a man a man
makes sure she stays in line
stay in fucking line stop thinking so much let her think it’s all she’s good for don’t you know what she wants from you give it to her make her scream
KNOCK HER TO THE GROUND make sure she knows her place they’ll only love you if you’re like him wipe the blood off your hands.
L. MOZAFFAR, G. RASQUINHA
MR.GEORGETOWN
It wasn’t there. It really wasn’t there. I had even confirmed online. The forty minute drive in unexpected traffic, looming midterms and now the faulty or treacherous Target website (I’m not sure which I despise more – incompetence or deception) was pushing my limit.
This was the context in which I met my first Mr. Georgetown. He was standing there by the aisle, the aisle of my missing yogurt, and he was smiling, gesturing at me to take out my airpods. I obliged out of courtesy.
“Where’s your boyfriend, beautiful?” he asked me. My ex boyfriend — if you could call a 3-month 2020 COVID Calculus class fling a relationship — lived three-thousand miles away and probably had not thought about me since assigned seating protocols ended our tenuous romance.
“He’s, uh, getting yogurt at Safeway.” I pointed with my eyes, “It’s pretty picked over.”
He frowned comically. “Okay then, beautiful. Sorry to bother.” Was he?
I turned and power walked away. God, I hate when Target doesn’t have my yogurt.
As it got colder and terrible traffic turned out to be the norm, not the exception, I resorted to Instacart for my yogurt cravings.
It was a Friday night, the chill bitter and the frost biting. A true “Toto, I’ve got a feeling we’re not in California anymore” type day. From my heat-pumping 74 degrees room, I was blissfully unaware of that. It was there I received the delivery notification and I shuffled outside in my thin short sleeve shirt.
But of course, the delivery was not there. Because despite the dozens of my peers who manage to successfully order their McNuggets every night, I couldn’t seem to properly input the Kennedy RHO address.
My fingers, toes and nose were really starting to feel it. With a little luck, multiple laps
around campus, and the eventual agreement to meet at the hospital, I finally found the black Toyota.
My second Mr. Georgetown reeked of pot. But he was friendly, even offering to drive me (“beautiful girl”) back to my dorm. My extremities were frozen, but my prefrontal cortex remained a functioning lukewarm. I declined.
When I got back to the tropical oasis of my dorm and unpacked, my phone buzzed again with a message. Instacart: “Have a great night, my princess.” With seven kissing face emojis. Seven. What a ridiculous amount of emojis, I remember thinking.
God, I hate when I forget to wear my jacket out in the cold.
I met my third Mr. Georgetown in Leavey. I was doing titration calculations in those white chairs across from Chick-Fil-A, lofi music blasting to drown out the “order 48, order 49’s”. He clearly didn’t get the memo. He tapped my back — “Sorry to bother, but I can’t help but feel I’ve met another runner,” he said, pointing at my Hokas.
“Oh, yeah,” I laughed awkwardly.
Who was this man? 40, maybe 45? He looked like my dad.
I need not have worried about being left in the dark, for I had barely begun processing the situation when — “I’m a venture capitalist.” I feel sorry for these men who think that is the most interesting thing about them.
“I split my time between here and California. The Bay Area is a big finance hub, you know.” I did know, I am from San Francisco. Take a breath. The mansplaining is an avoidance tactic – he’s trying to prevent an ‘I’m just Ken’ moment.
“But I love D.C. I just came back from dinner last night with some congressmen.” He gave specific names, but I know very few congressmen and had very little interest in his dinner regardless.
The conversation continued (my passive nodding and smiling the extent of its reciprocity). I was admittedly disengaged, more than a little peeved about being taken away from my work. This was my sacred study time.
Perhaps that is why I was so caught off-guard when: “Anyways, you really caught my eye. Would you like to have coffee sometime? I’ll give you my number. How about this weekend?”
I was shocked, and gave another embarrassed laugh. Stop with the ditzy laughing. You are not a dumb blonde.
“Unfortunately, I’m celebrating my 18th birthday this weekend. I’m just a freshman so I’m getting used to Georgetown, but my friends have found a good restaurant.” Okay, that was a lie. My birthday was in September and I had been 19 for months. But I was overwhelmed. Here was a man (an actual, like, old man) who was standing way too close for my comfort, asking for my number and blind to (or unconcerned with) the fact I was barely legal and less than half his age.
I gave him my number like he asked. But is it really asking if the person can’t say no? “So sorry, I’ve got to go to class.” I had no other obligations. “Thanks for chatting with me.” Another nervous giggle. Thanks for chatting with me?! I take it back – I am a dumb blonde. God, I fucking hate my stupid laugh. My Mr. Georgetown is not the Georgetown Man, but he is representative of some Georgetown men. My experiences are by no means unique, nor are they comparatively unpleasant. The truth is: I am not a gorgeous girl. Perhaps I am overreacting. These experiences are, after all, novel to me. Like I said, I am not a gorgeous girl. Things like this shouldn’t happen to me.
I’m not a dumb blonde, yet I still can’t seem to figure this out: Things like this shouldn’t happen to anyone, so why do they happen to everyone?
Collage by Sara Amar
You flick your lighter on— without the darkness to cover us, we are caught in the light. Mother said to be home by ten, but this warmth is too much to give up.
“It’ll be worth it,” you say, and I sink deeper until my ears pop from the pressure.
My crimson bow is bound too tight, yet it loosens under your touch. Will it come completely undone?
When I return home, Mother straightens my bow, but it stays lopsided behind my head. L U C K S Y S T R K E by mara gold
It is warm in your embrace again, but your cigarette burns my hand–a perfect mark of your love on my skin. “Isn’t that lovely?”
You kiss my wound. It’ll never heal.
Mother asks me where I’ve been, so I tell her I’ve been at Rose’s. but it is coming apart the more I wear it.
You offer me a Lucky Strike and I refuse, but deep down, I want to take one. Your smile glimmers in this darkness, and again let the light sear me with its embrace.
I bat her hand away. I don’t know where it is.
I had a dream that night. Ribbons of blood flowed from my head. Was it even mine? I don’t know.
My hands were a child’s paint project— reds of a billion different hues, stained and vivid.
My bow was lost in the mess, but my scars stood resolutely discolored against my reddening body. and let the stars burn their love on my skin again.
hands fingers toes
thighs lips otherlips ass breast thighs andmorethighs andfeignedmodesty paintedbytheimmodest galaéluardservedasamusse aformermistresss abitch
awhore “shewasanartistherself? iwasn’taware.” saidsomeone paidtobeaware ithinkshewouldbeangrier
MUSINGS AT THE MET
Ava MacDonald Flesh 2023
Digitial oil on digital canvas
passenger seat by Sonia Fan
tension thick like a rubber band stretching back and the car springs forward inside i breathe fast too
back pressed tight on leather i pulse quietly knees curled into my stomach feet sickled on the edge of the seat head turned away curved like a u-turn
white dashes on the road rage by smooth smears against flat gray a flare of red breaks straight lines to angry stillness silence settles in my lungs tight with fullness then the light turns green and i unknot wind up, and release, like a toy.
Photography by Saeed Judge Samra
salty by Thea Jacquand
remember the salty tears, dripping down our faces, remember the soft light and smell of lavender, the delicate understanding that maybe it was time, to accept what was and surrender.
i wiped away the tears of another, instead of my own. and yet through the gentle stream down the side of our cheeks, we laughed, giggled, made the same senseless jokes, reminiscing on the painful joys of the past few weeks. oh, hours and hours in that spot, but it only felt like five minutes, we were never sure. we grasped onto the time we slowly felt we had lost, lost our grasp on days and days before.
used to setting alarms, a sort of doomsday it was, but that’s the thing about it, i guess, it’s that the particular moment is a mystery of thought, it only happens when someone finally chooses to confess.
so now, the tears have dried up and we’re left with the salt, our cheeks are as dry as a desolate desert. remember that moment, it felt like a wondrous eternity, but will it be a memory that forever disconcerts?
Photography by Thea Jacquand
As you leave our love to forge new paths for yourself. And I stay right here, forever and ever, waiting for the day that you come back.
Left with the comforting yet horrifying thought that, for better or worse, I am permanently changed by you.
There’s a video playing. You’re just a baby, so small and clean from your sink-bath.
Your face is white with a yellow tint from the ceiling light, like a sliced apple.
Except
Yours is perfect and whole. I’ve made sure of it.
You’re safe, strapped to the counter in your pink pepto seat. I liked how tight they made them, how you just barely fit in the plastic, which squeaks as you kick your chubby thighs. I’m next to you, smiling brightly, but you’re too young to notice the dirt in my fingernails; rust red, dried blood I dug
You’ll never know how rough dirt is. I couldn’t know, as I reached up myself
To water amongst the darkest parts
And discovered that Peonies, poppies, and primrose
They all bloom like bruises down there
While baby’s breath goes stifled shut
Underneath the bed of scar tissue
I don’t think it’s meant to grow
In my garden
White roots emerge in screaming in scraggles
Art by Anonymous
Their ends form a body of cracked skin
Wails on fire, burnt orange crowning from the soil
Soft, clean, baby skin, under a wet, gritty layer
Washing my hands dirty
I pulled ugly out of the ground and give it a kiss with my palm
The sound of release tears my hand, soft for you
Uprooting. The pop of bones. The back buried beneath
The scars on my back rearrange as I thrust you into air
With each empty crack of ground,
I wonder where I got them
I wonder where the sound goes
It sounds the same as when mom’s
Earth emptied herself out and into me
Dirt sews itself through the water
The shriveled, starchy body sweats at the seams
Baptizing you at my hand
I was always told water holds memory
I never knew it could be soiled
That it could be fed to grow again and again
I never knew you’d appear out of the ground
by Blake Bertero
Art
Dear Reader,
Hello! We are Georgetown’ s Alliance of Fostered and Adoptee Students, also known as GAFAS! Here at GAFAS, we are a vibrant community dedicated to fostering a supportive & inclusive community on campus... we aim to provide a safe space where adoptees, formerlyfostered students, and allies can share their unique experiences and perspectives!
Our club aims to bring visibility to the adopted and fostered members of our Georgetown community whose identities often go unnoticed, We hope you’ll keep an eye out for our upcoming events, by looking for our GAFAS logo around campus and keeping up with our instragram, @gafas.gu <3,
by Sarah Lin
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by Camille Kelly
15 Minutes
I heard this thing once
That a way we know this is not the best world imaginable
Is that there is no day good enough
That you would want to live it forever
Just that day
Again and again.
And yet again and again
It is all the same.
Every day I wake up
And every day I brush my teeth
And every day I wash my face
I do my hair
I get dressed
I feed myself
I think about when I’ll do laundry
And that I am supposed to get around to
Those texts I am supposed to respond to
And every day a little stress
And a lotta worry
Every damn day.
And I feel bad complaining,
Believe me, I do.
I am lucky I get to do it.
But I feel this thing,
This annoying little thing
Something inside of me
All the time.
By Serena Barish
Maybe I am just a self-righteous bitch
But I hear it in my head
I am supposed to do something important. I know that I am.
I am not spending every day picking out jewelry and every day sucking in my stomach and every day a little sad
Just so I can be unremarkable. That cannot be all I was born for.
I was made for more than a routine. I am not supposed to be routine.
I do not spend every day inhaling and exhaling every minute
Just to spend all those minutes
Doing nothing more than Panicking about what to do with my life
Cause I hear it in my head
Serena you are meant to be great
That is all that you are worth
Just do it
Just fucking do it
And what will happen if I don’t?
Just a routine on repeat?
What will I be worth then?
If I grow old to find I’ve made no impact on this Earth?
I’m still just that girl
The delight to have in class
Smart and nothing more
Still just that girl
Trying to soothe myself with a promise of my fate
But what am I worth
If I grow old to find I am just nothing great?
Art by Blake Bertero
Art by Sara Amar
ByLoganCastellanos
