Bossier Magazine Issue 12

ASTRID DE ROHAN WILLNER

I still remember meeting you FRESHMAN YEAR ... It was love at first sight. I felt an unparalleled attraction, A DESIRE TO HOLD YOU, a DEEP affinity for your intimacy. bOSSIER, THANK YOU FOR THE FOND MEMORIES, BUT IT IS NOW TIME to part ways. I knOW OUR PATHS CROSSED FOR A REASON, but i also know i cannot take you with me after Georgetown. THANK YOU FOR THE PATIENCE, AND THE GROWTH. THANK YOU everything <3.

nearly four years later, I love you just as much as when we first met. But it is time to say farewell. hugs and kisseS always. yours truly,

ashington uare ark

francesca donovan

AS WE ROE IT

Its the end of the world and all I can do is sit

And keep screaming in silence And wonder how long we can keep spinning and spinning As our existences Our bodies Our beings Our rights Our lives Get gambled Like they are merely chips In the game of politics Merely steps On the climb to power Merely blips On the sideline of a world Built for the bodies The beings Deemed worthy And maybe that is why My screams fall on deaf ears My tears are not deemed a cost My defeat is not your loss

Treat me like an object Yell at me Hit me Attack me Use me for your pleasure Mistreat me like an object Like the object that I am

Because even if I object All I am is an object When you deny me to be The being I was born as And keep ignoring The screaming For as long as You see fit For who am I to say What to do with my body When all I am is an object

So ignore me and my rights Ignore my story and my life Ignore this raucous I am making Ignore the glass we will keep breaking Ignore the way the world is shaking Ignore the space I will be taking

Ignore me

As you please But I won’t let you forget My objection when this object Is finally Coming for your neck by

Serena Barish

My Year Rest and Relaxation

Notes from my Travel - Neha

Year of (No) Relaxation

my Travel Journals Neha Malik

DEBORAH aka "the drama queen"

MIA aka "the best"

ALYSSIA aka "the instigator"

slutsdon’tgetcold

byBilquisuAbdullah

pleaseexcusethisinterruptionfromyourregularlyscheduledprogram. newshasjustbeenreceivedthatslutsdon’tgetcold. theysaynoandwearthatoutfitwithonlytheirjoyinmind orwhentheypaintonthecanvasthatistheirface. whattheyareactuallythinkingis“thislipstickmakesmelooksexy” andnot that“thislipstickdrawsattentionawayfromthebodyothershypersexualized” theyareactuallythinking“thismascaramakesmyeyespop” andnot“maybeifmylashesarecoatedinblackhe’llknowidon’twantto” and “bothmyeyesandlipsaresayingno” sonexttimeyouseeone, noneedforblanketsofcomfortor“i’msorrys” noneedtoask“aren’tyoucold?” ….nexttimeon‘thosesillylittlesayings’ “hijabisneedsaving” “hoesarealwayschilly” “momsdon’thavesex” and“girlsdon’thavepenises”

artwork by Thea Jacquand

temple

by brittany peng

the curvatures of the upper anterior of the lower posterior lure the lust of men who dare to touch the goddess inside because of their temptation of her temple.

they boisterously said amongst themselves: she’s trouble. she’s teasing. she’s too much to resist.

they said to the goddess: you are beautiful, to bend her no’s into yes’s only to rob her temple and ruin her spirit.

my body is a temple and my goddess inside: she knows she is beautiful she feels she is divine she only accepts those who worship who she truly is.

Kevin Moreno

(Love) Letter Written in a CVS Valentine

Day’s Aisle by Elina Choi 사랑

I think of love and 사랑 as different living beings slipping entities in mind, I watch my entangled body love his body from a distance, maybe thirty or forty years ahead when I know better how to process the way I pour 사랑 towards someaone who can only love, the unfairness of it all, the way Umma taught me love is never fair, the way I’ve always wondered if she is happy, Korean love is burning and scalds surfaces unsuspecting,

I think of the Korean mothers who sent their daughters away with men who promised a better life, the corpses that never returned and the bodies that filled bloody wells of the grandmother’s forty seconds of air-time, describing her missing grand-daughter by the shape and color of the scar on her left shoulder How our food is marinating and fermenting and resting and cooling and second-degree burns if mishandled, I think of the wall of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup and EasyMac over there in aisle five, How gwenchana means it’s okay, I’m okay, you’re doing well, I forgive you, are you okay, and how that one word carries more than an embrace, how maybe that is all there is, if I ever get there.

la fir day

I’m settled in, my carpets laid. I put my special things away In their special place.

How do you make a house a home? How do such familiar places have Untravelled roads?

On my last first day, I just smiled and waved At the people seeing A fresh version of me.

I’ll seize the day, Just like every other day, And know that right here Is where I’m meant to be.

Kiss the breeze, my love Beneath your favorite tree.

It’s strange to think it feels the same But with an unprecedented freedom at’s hard to name.

How come some people are such fools? How can there be so little time, But so much to do?

On my last first day, I just smiled and waved At the people seeing A fresh version of me.

I’ll seize the day, Just like every other day, And know that right here Is where I’m meant to be.

Kiss the breeze, my love Beneath your favorite tree.

But how can you get it done When you’re always on the run? When you always have Some place you need to be?

Just sink into your skin. Let your intuition kick in. Because you know you know, You always know.

You know, you know, you know. You always know.

On my last first day, I just smiled and waved At the people seeing A fresh version of me.

I’ll seize the day, Just like every other day, And know that right here Is where I’m meant to be.

Kiss the breeze, my love Beneath your favorite tree.

Kiss the breeze, my love Beneath your favorite tree.

by Bella Carlucci

WHATTHEFUCK ISNICOMACHEANETHICS

by:NataliePrice-Fudge

AND PHOTOGRAPHY BY MADDY LANGAN AND FRANCESCA DONOVAN

and ritethingsthat can ttyanddaringandIwantitto didn’tknowyouhad. efour-linepoems begintofeelalittleheartbroken too.AndIwant to analyze gphraseslikeenjambment andiambicpentameter.ButI ylackofworldlyexperienceislikeashadowthatlooms mings. myclasses andthepagesofmysubpar essays. lm’s view onGodseem to mockme relentlessly.Iwant gMSNBC,alongwithmymorningcupofblackcoffee. pleasurefromeverybitter mouthful.Instead,Iubliminallytothenewsatnightsothat when I want to understandwhatthefuckNicomacheanethicsisand not onlythat;Iwanttodisagree withit.Iwanttoposeinsightfulquestions. I want to use nonlinearity andinflation in thesame sentence andmean everyfuckingword. I want to readTolstoyinapark,under atree,inasundress andlookeducatedandfeminine.Sothat evenifit wasjustfor a minute,Icouldfeelabove average. ButIdon’twanttobe justabove average,Iwanttobe exceptional. But exceptionalpeoplecanpulloff Tolstoyinasundress. eydon’t

Rakhi and Cate Look at the Moon

during the last4visitstomedstarstudenthealth, under the unforgiving sharpness ofwhiteleds, isaton the exam tablewithlegs dangling andheartthumping –

(aremnantfrom her days as a chinatownjewelry store owner)

irememberedhow ifailedmy spanishtest (canvas toldme iwas the lowestscore inthe class)

how the smellofmypopo’stiger balmsignaledher 5-am wakeup time

andhow iforgottorespondtomy roommates’texts (couldsomeonepickup moretjwineplsillvenmoyou backlater) then irememberedhow atpopo’s, iwouldn’tthinktwiceaboutfoodandovaltine

thinking aboutwhen i’dwake up to a bowlofsteaming noodleson mornings withoutschool

once iwoke up small&hungry how the maltpowdergranuleswouldcrystallize on my tongue andi’dstrollwithmypopo tothe nearby chinese marketandlocalbookstore,

(iwear thegreen applebooks logo tosleep) (wecan’tgo tonew may wahsince the checkoutlady overchargedandarguedwithpopo)

(ithinki’dliketobe boththough) mypopo needs cataractsurgery now andmy mom says thatiwilltoo(it’shereditary)

the nextslotfor the surgeon whospeaks cantonese isn’tfor another sixmonths

irememberedreturning topopo’shouse witha new nancy drew bookinhand

thatmagicallyappeared

(cashonlyinthe same shade as the bokchoypopogetssince it’seasierfor me tochew).

my chinese name means smartprettygirlbutpoposays it’s bettertobe smartthan tobepretty

andmypopo worries aboutmy mom skipping worktopickher up

butpopo waitedyears before finallytelling us thatshe struggledseeing outofher lefteye,

andnow she bumps into things (plus she bruiseseasily) she doesn’tdrive anymore, doesn’ttake the bus,(thecityismean toasian elderlyso she toldme she’sscaredandi’mscaredfor her)

butstillhas drawings imade from those days ofchinese marketandbookstore runs,

hung up on her closetdoor inher bedroom notebookpaper nowagedapaleyellow byyears ofwarm sunshinepeeking throughher curtains (idon’tknow how wellshe can see them now though)

“Hello, Kailey!Whatseems tobe the issue today?

DAILY CHALLENGE I FACED

UST LATE ENOUGH TO THE HED. THIS LEFT ME AT A SEVERE DISADVANTAGE, STARTING EVERY MORNING PRAYING THERE WOULD BE ENOUGH HOT WATER LEFT AFTER MY THREE SISTERS FINISHED SHAMPOOING AND CONDITIONING THEIR THICK, CURLY LOCKS. GROWING UP, I WITNESSED REGULAR BLOOD BATHS OVER SHARED HAIR DRYERS, CURLING IRONS, AND NAIL POLISH

THIS THEME FOLLOWED ME THROUGHOUT THE HOUSE - GETTING THE LEAST AMOUNT OF CONTROL OVER THE TV REMOTE, A FRACTIONAL AMOUNT OF PARENTAL SUPERVISION, AND AN ENDLESS STREAM OF HAND-ME-DOWN ITEMS I HOPELESSLY ATTEMPTED TO REBRAND AS “RETRO”.

NOW THAT THE HOUSE IS EMPTY, EACH ROOM REMINDS ME OF VALUABLE MEMORIES WHICH FILLED OUR LIVES TOGETHER. THE KITCHEN IS HAUNTED BY GHOSTS OF SHARED MEALS, LAUGHING SO HARD THAT MILK WOULD SHOOT OUT OF MY NOSE (EFFECTIVELY RUINING THE MOMENT). I REMEMBER OUR CULTURE OF JOYOUS FAMILY COMMUNITY.

THE BASEMENT COUCH HAS FADED FROM HOURS OF USE, SHUFFLING THE DECKS OF CARDS AND PLAYING BOARD GAMES. IF YOU LIFT THE CUSHION, YOU CAN FIND SEVERAL “BANANAGRAMS” TILES HIDDEN AWAY BY A SISTER WITH A PROPENSITY FOR CHEATING. TOGETHER WE SHARED A CULTURE OF COMPETITION. THE BACKYARD IS WHERE I WOULD GROW FRUSTRATED WHEN I FAILED TO MAINTAIN THE SAME PACE AS MY OLDER SISTERS. THEY NEVER TOOK IT EASY ON ME. I RECALL THE HOURS THE FOUR OF US SPENT IN THE HOT JULY SUN AS THEY TIRELESSLY COACHED ME TO PERFECT MY REVERSE SWEEP PRIOR TO VARSITY FIELD HOCKEY TRYOUTS. NOW I CAN RECOGNIZE THOSE MOMENTS OF TOUGH LOVE AS ESSENTIAL BUILDING BLOCKS TO MY SUCCESS ON THE FIELD. TOGETHER WE SHARED A CULTURE OF COMMITMENT.

WHEN I ENTERED HIGH SCHOOL, IT BECAME CLEAR THAT THE SHADOWS CAST BY MY SISTERS EXTENDED FAR BEYOND THE CONFINES OF OUR SHARED HOME. HOWEVER, INSTEAD OF THIS BEING A BURDEN, I CAME TO RECOGNIZE IT AS A MEANINGFUL BLESSING. I’VE NEVER FELT I WAS IN THEIR SHADOWS. INSTEAD, THEY PAVED A PATH FOR ME AND I RELISHED THE OPPORTUNITY TO STAND ON THE SHOULDERS OF GIANTS, LEARNING VIA THEIR EXAMPLES. THEY’VE ENCOURAGED ME TO WORK HARD AND HAVE SUPPORTED ALL OF MY ENDEAVORS.

IT HAS BEEN BITTERSWEET WITNESSING ALL THREE OF MY SISTERS GO OFF TO THEIR BIG GIRL LIVES OVER THE PAST NINE YEARS. WITH EACH DEPARTURE, I RECOGNIZED A SMALL SHIFT IN OUR DOMESTIC CULTURE THROUGHOUT THE HOUSEHOLD. I NEVER REALIZED HOW BIG THE CLOSET IS, HOW MANY INTRUSIVE PARENTAL QUESTIONS I AM ASKED AT THE KITCHEN TABLE, AND HOW QUIET THE BATHROOM CAN BE.

coffee chat, unfiltered it’s been so long, coffee sometime? yeah for sure we both know this moment will rot like a collapsing november pumpkin, or the house at the end of the neighborhood road which once was alone and sturdy in the woods but has since been choked out by the invasive species of neglect and real estate developers how are classes how is the semester? wonderful splendid stressful this is the third time we’ve performed this play perhaps we do not remember the first two perhaps we are simply avid theatergoers

how are you? great amazing you? read off of our social script because it’s what we want to hear because it’s too hard to stomach to say empty all the time i do not want your temporal pity yes let’s get coffee i’ll text you i wish it was not like this i wish i did not have to try so hard and my mouth was not so acidic all the time i miss you i miss you too

Written by Christine Ji

Art by Maddy Langan

Layout by Natalie Price-Fudge

e Breakup

I think I always feared relationships like this, but I still never saw ours coming. I was self-aware, entering college I think I this, but I still never saw ours coming. I was self-aware, entering with an appropriate balance of confidence, excitement, and nervousness. I could spot red flags, knew who wasn’t with an balance of con dence, excitement, and nervousness. I could red who wasn’t worth my time, and knew that I was better off without a companion like you. worth time, and knew that I was better o without a you. But you lured me in. When I first encountered you, freshman year, it was halfway into Fall. You asked me to do But lured me in. When I rst year, it was into Fall. You asked me to do work with you in the library at night, and even though I had already finished all my work for the day and my work in the at and even I had nished all for the eyes were strained from staring into my computer, our own mutual isolation in a quiet and sheltered corner was eyes were strained from staring into my computer, our own mutual in a quiet and sheltered was more alluring than my initial plans of a movie night with my roommates. I muddled my way across campus, more my of a with roommates. I muddled way across campus, through frigid night air, and aimlessly reread my notes by your side. You told me how happy you were to steal me air, and side. You told me how you were to steal me away that night, just the two of us. away just the two of us. A er that night, I coincidentally ran into you across campus several times. Our little conversations about our er I ran into you across campus several times. Our little conversations about our day turned into me telling you my mild concerns about school, about my friendships, about myself, and I loved into me you my concerns about school, about and how you validated them. Yes, she was being passive aggressive to you during lunch. Yes, you probably did need you validated them. Yes, she was passive aggressive to you nee to study more for your biology exam. No, you shouldn’t go out with those people if you felt uncomfortable with a to exam. No, you go out with felt uncomfortable member of the group. Spend time with me. Eat lunch with me. Watch movies with me. Be alone with me member of time with me. Eat lunch with me. Watch movies with me. Be alone with me. I began to crave your company. It was like a cloak that shielded me from all the unpleasantries in the world, a re- I to crave your company. It was like a cloak that shielded me from all the unpleasantries in the world, a re treat where I knew I could avoid feeling unwanted, dissatisfied, or uncomfortable. Before I knew it, our one year treat where I knew I could avoid dissatis ed, or uncomfortable. Before I knew it, our one year anniversary arrived, and then our second, and then our third. anniversary and then our second, and then our third. But our relationship had evolved. Even when I didn’t want to confide my concerns in you, when I wanted to fo- But our evolved. Even when I didn’t want to con de concerns in you, when I wanted to focus on something happy, wanted to see my friends, you wouldn’t let me. Remember how that one girl made you cus on wanted to see you wouldn’t let me. Remember how that one feel the last time you went out with her? Remember you said you weren’t feeling great about your appearance? feel the last time you went out with her? you weren’t great your Why are you happy when you have this to worry about? I think you’d be better off staying here with me. ey’re are have this to worry I be better o with me. going to judge you, make fun of you. going to you, make fun You made me feel horrible. I cried in front of you, you took me into your arms and told me I was safe with you, You made me feel horrible. I cried in front you took me into your arms and told me I was safe alone. You said you were the only one who understood me, and I wanted to believe you. alone. You were the one who understood me, and I wanted to you.

I think I always feared relationships like this, and then I found I think I this, and then I found myself guilty of breathing unwanted life into one during a time in life into one a time in my life when I was supposed to be discovering who I was, making when I was supposed to be I was, mistakes, learning to be comfortable with being uncomfortable. You mistakes, be comfortable with You robbed me of my confidence, my happiness, and I knew we couldn’t robbed me of con dence, and I knew we couldn’t be together anymore. Before four years arrive, there is something I be Before years arrive, there is need to do now.

I need to break up with myself. I need to break

Written by Nina Gulati Written Nina Gulati

Art by Susan Rogers

My Father, who was my mother, who

By: Sylvie Buckalew

My Father, who was my mother, who gingerly held my hand into Womanhood, who sat in the passenger seat of my first Heartbreak, telling me, “You know you always dive into things, Sylvie,”

And who, (there must be a Lesson) told me to stand on the Bank, patiently;

Good things only flow down the River when you don’t resist It.

My Father, who was my mother, who yelled at cars for going too fast in our neighborhood.

My Father, who was my mother, who has stood on that Bank.

My Father, who was my mother, who has an Alice in Chains tattoo on his right calf, below the number of days his sister was alive; He carries her with him.

My Father, who was my mother, who carries me with him, too—

My Father, who was my mother, when She forfeited her warmth to strange men in the night, when She stared through me and into some distant, Other thing I couldn’t slaughter, (I am a poor altar offering).

My Father, who was my mother, who told me, “When it bothers you, put it in your pocket, and when it bothers you there, put it in another, and”

My Father, who was my mother, who has always had only one pocket.

My Father, who is just my Father, who runs through crossword puzzles like dirty dishes, except the dishes are only chicken, rice and cheese; He is a simple man. He knows what He likes.

My Father, who is just my Father, when I am leaving, and growing, and moving, and he is staying, like Fathers do.

My Father, who is just my Father, and who has loved enough for two.

Lately, the young child inside me wonders what would have happened if my parents had never migrated, if they had never been forced to migrate. If I never migrated. What would have happened if I did not have to say goodbye to my childhood?

I was four when my dad left.

I was ten when my mom left.

I was thirteen when I left.

I’ve learned that the U.S. refers to people like me as “children left behind.” That is what they call children who stayed in their home countries when their parent(s) migrate. But, “left behind” implies an act of abandonment and deems immigrant parents as bad parents for leaving their children. My parents did not mean to leave me behind. They did not abandon me.

My parents are not bad parents. My parents are not bad parents.

They migrated because they could no longer feed their children. Colonialism burned our land, U.S. interventions killed our people, and they continue to kill our people. And an oppressive government took our food.

But the child in me never understood why my parents had to leave. The child in me resented them for letting me grow up without them. The child in me resented them because they could give my sisters the childhood I never had. I resented them. Even when I got to hug them again. Even when I was reunited with them. The child inside me was so angry and hurt.

My parents migrated to be good parents. My parents are good parents.

Last year, I saw a Facebook post from my dad. A picture of my baby sister captioned: “disfrutando con mi niña desde el primer dia que nació, lo que con mis primeros tres no pude hacer.” A caption reminded me that my sisters and I never had the same parents. My sisters got parents who come home every day. I got parents who could not come home to me.

I deserved to grow up with my parents. My brothers deserved to grow up with our parents.

I felt so angry. But then I was sad for him. He did not get to see his first three children grow up. For nine years, all he got was a photo album of his children for Christmas.

Being separated from my parents was painful, and now that I am older, I realize that my parents were also in pain.

I am no longer angry at my parents. I am angry at the world. I am angry at the people who created this cruel world. A world where parents have to leave their children just to feed them.

My parents deserved to see their children grow up. My parents deserved to see their parents grow old.

I imagine a world where families have the right to migrate without being criminalized. I imagine a world where families do not need to migrate.

I imagine a world where families can exist freely and happily beyond man-made borders.

Today, I imagine a world where no parent is forced to be separated from their children to give them access to basic human needs.

I like to imagine that in another world, my parents don’t have to leave for us to survive. And little Sol grows up with their parents in our homeland. And they get a facebook post captioned, “disfrutando con mi niña desde el primer dia que nació.

En otro mundo, l, my siblings, and all the other children get to be children.

En otro mundo, we get to be happy children.

En otro mundo, borders won’t keep us from our loved ones.

i don’t pray o en but when i do, i thank god for the women that raise me / with her hands that descend delicately to wipe my tears / that the eyes behind her head see, even when i cross her / words from lips that shape a wise, sweet medley, dictate the mends of her once shattered heart / i hear beating the same time blood rushes to her cheeks and her vocal cords strain / between what she means and what she says, she’s not used to people hearing the selfless vision she cups in those same delicate hands is one where no one needs to be healed by them when i thank her for her love, i’m indebted to her struggle / because in a world that tells me her vision isn’t possible, she’s learned how to hold

god gets her heartbroken too gets her heartbroken too

photography by luisa rego

Not See The Stars Even As We Do

Art and Poetry by Erique Perez

eyes swirl through clouds of memory

you haunt me. loving is so fast, forgetting is so long. an instant, an apparition, and a shadow of a moment throats choking on a truth, a secret to no one.

Lunar Messages

our eyes fixated on each others’ between us, a hunger longing, greater than words you captured me

so scared to breathe you drowned. you drowned. you drowned.

the moon and the sun

by Alison Karki

An unusual love story where the moon meets the sun and they resume their never ending cycle of companionship.

When the sky weeps, the moon and sun ride off into the distance.

A duo lasting until the world ends and when they flee, they will vanish together, their hands clasped, laughing about their everlasting memories.

A soulmate like no other: the moon and sun complete each other.

photo by ea Jacquand

SIXTEEN

How do I fall like rain? How do I run, a river soft and sure? Where am I going? Where am I?

This space is mine, this body, curves and lines.

Is it pleasing to you? Is it pure enough for you? I know you like I know myself. Not at all. What can I know by knowing you?

I know I want to dance with you in the rain, to kiss you on dark sidewalks, to feel your hands on mine.

Am I soft enough? Sure enough? Can my waves crash on your shore? I don’t want to run anymore. Where am I going? I wish I knew. I wish I could warn you.

THE TIDES

How can I be the ocean spray and touch everything I may? light, soft, gentle, caressing a cheek. Am I there? I am not yours to keep.

Is this my space? Is this my beautiful, broken body? Do I want it to be?

I want to be as strong as that feeling, cresting, inescapable, washing you away,

tide after tide. I want to be here. I know where I am.

How do I stay when everything changes?

MY BODY

What is taken that cannot be returned?

A soft sprig of lavender, plucked from the waiting earth, dies as soon as it is touched; it does not wither or shiver, but gasps a parting word, bottled and sold, what is it you love more than control?

In lust I held you, I savored your breath, the taste of your mouth, your affection; you took more than I offered, and no parting word would make you stop. I was already bottled, sold, lost.

What is taken that cannot be returned? My body. My body is no longer my own.

twenty questions

a poem collection by Rachel Parks

I see you.

Shifting weight over uneven pavement, dragging your feet one more step, another, and another. This

hill is steep- I know it well. Pockmarks left by loose bricks, to lose focus is to stumble, to fall into red rectangles and stone crevices, unassuming but vicious when you land. I see you. Face tight with pain, fatigue pulling your eyelids down, slowly, struggling to rise again, for you are here- but not really. The vague lines of the syllabi, tattoed behind your tired eyes, command it. So you stay, tethered by this shame, trapped inside it, familiar and- at times- lonely, isolating, because who else could truly understand? But- I see you

Anxious fingers tapping on desk chairs; I see you, hooded eyes and creased masks; I see you, white flag peeking out— And I understand.

God takes More than she gives

I just want a little taste of those to the length of days But I can’t complain about the cards I’ve been dealt Or how my mind was jailed by an absentee father When I was but a twinkle in the

poppy

waves Because

I’m prone to dwelling in the home of my fears for months Reduced

eyes of my mother And some days Most days, honestly

I’m a mouse in a trap But one of these days These amber days of fall I’ll become the hound and the world will know my bite

When a baby is on the way, When a is on the way,

People are curious to inspect and survey. are curious to inspect and survey. Carefully monitoring the expectantʼs every move the every move Almost suggesting they need something to prove. Almost need to prove.

What color hat will the baby wear? What color hat will the baby wear?

Concerned about a being too young to care Concerned about a being too young to care Blue and pink hints cloud the mind Blue and hints cloud the mind Boy or girl must be defined. or must be defined.

n s t r u c t i o n a n d B i n a r y B o u n d sO

i v i a C o o l e y Construction and Binary BoundsOlivia Cooley

Everyone assimilated into a rigid duality. assimilated into a Anything different is seen as an abnormality. different is seen as an

What if one doesnʼt view themselves as part of a premade group? What if one doesnʼt view themselves as part of a Throwing the conservative minds for a loop. the conservative minds for a

Social construction established binary bounds, Social construction established bounds, For society to inspect and make their rounds. For to and make their rounds.

Boys will be boys, they say will be say Donʼt let him cry, and life will be okay. Donʼt let him cry, and life will be okay.

As tears fall from a girlʼs face, As tears fall from a face, Others are quick to assume she needs a manʼs embrace. Others are to assume she needs a manʼs embrace. How have we come to determine the rules of gender? How have we come to determine the rules of Man or woman to which each human must surrender. or woman to must

I wish for a world full of liberation a One with suitable gender education One with suitable gender education

Filling the minds with inclusivity the minds with inclusivity

To produce the greatest levels of creativity. To the greatest levels of

In what ways can we promote gender neutrality? In what ways can we promote gender

Breaking gender bounds and establishing a new reality. bounds and a new Gender should be seen as fluid, similar to a scope Gender should be seen as fluid, similar to a scope

Steering away from any common trope. away from any common trope.

visual art by Christine Ji visual art by Christine Ji

Santa Cruz Stirs

Kian Blewett

shaking out pine needle static as sunlight sharpens the mind blue, she wakes and forgets the fog, forgetfulness itself great green lizard spine arching to suck the sun, she rises to her feet as mountains harden, her back hardens against the weight of the Pacific

Here on the beach, I can see it all, the waking of a place, the placing of a memory

A bay away, a day away, Big Sur howls of a coming spasm a coming sleep my feet set in the sand to face it, I brace against those silent winds casting out my thoughts lest they subsume me: I howl back,

a boat dri s out of the harbor, out past the lighthouse toward that great grey condensed wall of thick mist a mile out and fi y miles wide asleep

It’s then that I think about the Old Ones at Sea How I forgot to remember them never mind , never mind they’ll return with the fog

visual art by Lily Touret

words of advice for anyone going through a breakup

by jenny linares

- lean on your friends. they want to support you through this. cry to them. vent to them. find the friends that will let you be sappy and reminisce on old memories and scroll through photos and text messages with them. but also find the friends that will give you the advice you need to hear to be able to move on, even if it stings.

- let yourself be sad. one of the most harmful things anybody can tell you during the breakup, especially in the first couple of weeks of it, is to just get over it. don’t listen to those people. remember that you are in a period of grief. one day, so much of your life revolves around this one person. the next, they simply do not exist in your world anymore. at least not in the ways they used to. this is a difficult realization, and everyone comes to terms with it differently.

- listen to sad music. there is something so special about hearing someone put all the emotions, many of which are so complicated and convoluted to explain, into words. a breakup can be an incredibly isolating experience, and listening to sad music can make you feel a little less alone.

- remember that you are not your breakup. people do and say some really cruel things leading up to and during a breakup, and it’s easy to think that the things that happened to you are a reflection of what you deserved. it’s not. you are worthy of love, and the fact that they couldn’t give it to you says everything about them and nothing about you.

- delete old text messages. i am so sentimental, o en to my own detriment. i didn’t delete my texts with my ex until months a er the breakup and i spent all that time scrolling through old messages and crying my eyes out wondering: what changed? how could someone who said all these nice things to me just treat me like nothing the next? thinking like this will send you into a spiral. the sad reality is that they are not the same person who wrote those messages. that person doesn’t exist anymore, and harping on who they used to be will only lead you to regress.

- don’t text them. i understand why you want to. you miss them and want to feel connected with them, even if it’s just for a quick second. but one of the wisest things i learned from my breakup is that nothing they will tell you will make the pain go away. and thinking that way will let you have a lot more power over your healing process.

- find peace and closure on your own. the breakup may leave you with a lot of unanswered questions, but again, nothing they will tell you will make the pain go away. you probably have an idea of what answers you want from them, but these answers are not guaranteed, and revolving your entire healing process around these answers will not do you any good. thinking “if i just know why they did or said this one thing, i’ll be able to move on” will not do you any good. it’s okay not to have answers, and sometimes ignorance really is bliss.

- know that the pain will go away one day, even if it feels like it never will. at the beginning of a breakup, all you could think about is them and the pain they caused. as time goes on, the thoughts will still be there but they won’t really linger anymore. they will just kinda come and go. and randomly one day, you’ll realize that you’ve gone days without thinking about them. and when you do, you don’t really feel anything anymore. it may take days, weeks, or months, but it’ll come.

Expiration Date by Aiganym Nurakhanova

I wish I’d known you earlier.”

“If only we had time.”

A gut-wrenching sense of deja vu; e mountain I always dread to climb

Never not racing against the clockcounting down months, weeks, days. For once, I want it to last forever, I want to be the one who stays.

I always do what’s best for mewon’t cut my wings off just to be with you. But what if I didn’t have to choose at all and you’d be a part of my future too?

Is it a curse or just bad karma to meet the right ones when you’re out of reach?

My friends say I can do much betterYet before this, we both only had half a heart each.

I linger in the goodbye hug a little longer; My hair will smell of you for a while.

I try to memorize your touch, your whisper, and how your jokes could make me smile

I’ll watch you move on to a life without memake friends, go places, find new love

I’ll learn to accept that we weren’t meant to be, that fate is written by the powers above

e smallest things remind me of usmy favorite candy, the Atlantic’s shade of blue… People will think I’m going crazy but I’m simply happy to have known you

i love you but that’s not enough. somehow, that makes me love you more. may we meet again in another life.i love you.

What we had was intense and complicated, yet worth the taste till the last drop. And though we’ve always had an expiration date, My love for you won’t ever stop.

meet me at midnght. yours, always.

Home Cooked Meal

the air outside ushers me home. the breeze begs to be inside, to be transformed into the scents of dinner.

the table is set. chicken, rice, and wine await my fork. the chicken is filling. she laughs at my jokes, but hers are funnier than she knows. seasoned with love, she does not hide her spice; she embraces the chef’s rough estimates. the blend was curated by the bird herself. you can tell she was once wild.

the rice, prepared from a recipe only their family knows. a staple in every meal, in every country, she is timeless, yet time has not quite yet captured her. the grain was washed with gentle hands i savor every bite, rice is not always this good.

the wine reminds me that good things are best appreciated later in life. yet, i recognize her from childhood, sweet grape accompanying me home on the bus, i tell her my first crush, she swears she won’t tell. she stains my shirt, but i prefer the way it looks. the grape now aged shines in her prime there is nothing i would add. in her bottle she did everything right.

dinner dances on my tongue the chicken, the rice, and the wine link arms they laugh, they cry, they rejoice. i slip the cat scraps, but the dinner has already filled the cats bowl, she always ends up with two dinners.

Written by Maddy Langan

Photography by Kirsten Garino

Layout by Natalie Price-Fudge

Swept tempestuously from misty dreams, the lost girl the Found herself, out-of-depth, small, Found herself, small, A child, all but choiceless she returned hastily A child, all but choiceless she returned Home, bewitched by her broken desert Home, bewitched broken desert

Of thorny cacti, dancing in the wind, Of in wind, Beckoning towards her, outstretched her, outstretched Arms and whispering “Come home.” Come home to Arms and home.” Come home to Your painted orange sunset and Your sunset and

e smell of home-cooked curry. Come home, leave your e smell of home-cooked Come home, your Tall cathedral, stay safe, the desert Tall cathedral, stay the desert Is your Guardian. e lost girl came closer, Is your Guardian. e came closer, Closer to the dancing cacti but Closer to the but

She pricked herself. e dark allure of blood herself. Brought the coyotes to her door, her the coyotes to her door, her Deadly reminder of a flawed past life, of a life, And broken memories, she listened And broken memories, listened

e coyotes, they howled, louder, louder, e coyotes, louder, louder, Till the girl remembered her maimed Till remembered her maimed History. Her years of Becoming returned, History. Her years of Harsh like the desert wind, she saw Harsh like the desert saw

Her blood painted the sunset a color, Her the sunset a color, Even more alluring. Go I Even more Go I Must, she whispered. For the cacti mean no Must, she For the cacti mean no Harm. ese rough coyotes are my ese are my

Family. Even as she wrestled, the kiss of Even as she wrestled, the kiss of Lost childhood renewed, she blessed Lost childhood blessed is broken road and she called it Home, her is broken road and she called it orny cacti enveloped her as orny cacti enveloped her as

She danced with the cruel wind, grateful for her She danced with the cruel for her Appendages. Grateful for the Grateful for the Painted orange sunset. Never forgetting Painted sunset. Never Her beautiful broken desert.

Written by Anya Wahal Written

Photography by Eloise Owen Owen

Dummiesʼ Guide to Torturing Your Artist

By: Sydney Worrell

The worldʼs splendor shimmers under a blue hue. How it sings in the rain, dripping from lashes to cheek. While days in the sun shed a golden veil and stoke a quiet warmth within the satisfied soul, the placid becomes passive as daydreams and happy musings replace the crescendoing music of artistic yearning. The unrelenting call to create that never reaches past the tip of the tongue. Screams can ease the desperation but will forever fail to form a melody; and the tortured artist will break as her light of inspiration ensures her lasting torment.

“Bustling Crowd” by: Logan Castellanos

on the addiction that is validation..

by: anonymous

so few things actually give us the validation we crave.

my life was once changed by an email i received, one recognizing how i longed to be seen for so long. but that was also an image that i started to want to rid myself of. on one hand, it felt gratifying to know that the hard work had paid off. that the gruesome months of work actually impacted just one person. and to know that they thought of me as humble through it all confirmed my quiet pride. but shouldn’t i be able to feel that by myself?

this is the same way i felt a er hearing what a few boys thought of me. now what the flying fuck was that? how is it that i felt like more of a treasure than ever a er hearing that they thought i was “hot” - there is something so deeply messed up about that. why is it that the the idea of a man looking at me makes me feel complete, makes me feel like i made it?

they all say these up and downs are hormones. yet, i always get a rush when people “hype me up” - which i guess is normal, everybody loves a compliment. but that should never ever be my only source of gratification, of self worth. because it most certainly is not. and yet some part of me is so deeply convinced that i cannot be attractive, or seen as kind and smart without people telling me. but that isn’t how the world works. it’s much more complex than that. people will think of you, judge you behind your back, the good and the bad. but they won’t tell you what they think. you aren’t entitled to know what they think of you: the good will only boost your ego, unnecessarily, and the bad will only hurt you, they say. because they care… lol. right now, i am a hypocrite; i write this shit, then post it and get a rush of adrenaline like no other; and when did that start to become a remedy for my lowest moments? writing should be, meditation, movement and health. and yet, this shit fixes it so much quicker, that you become reliant on this instant gratification, this instant validation, that compares to no other. you need the academic, social and seductive validation. you crave it. you check who saw it, who liked it, who said what, when and to who - just to fill your barrel of energy, the energy that metabolizes thanks to validation. it gives you the confidence you need to feel free. But it poisons you slowly.

BUZZCUT SEASON

francesca donovan

MIRANDA POMROY

by Caterina Lungu

we swim in different springs and our shadows drip from our backs like molasses when we float all the same i envy the sun that gets to see how you shine and the moon that cools your summered skin when i miss you too much to comprehend i try not to think so hard about it i just imagine: you in your eden all the flowers you tend when we’re apart and i savor the little piece of your heart X until i see you again and i feel you and i can taste the sun that baked you, bathed you and the moon that cooled you and drew you deeper to yourself

by Kendall Emphasis

photo by Alaena Hunt

Redbone-Core

Sakina Ahmad

The human need to categorize is fascinating. I think it definitely stems from curiosity. Maybe morbid curiosity. We always have to know where things fit, treating each other like a seven billion piece puzzle, where we are always losing the corner pieces, the border that keeps everything and everyone contained.

I did my fair share of categorizing, obsessing over where my multicultural identity put me. Black, Desi, Hispanic, Muslim, Agnistic, blah blah blah. I put so much effort into figuring out how I fit into these tiny little areas of this grand puzzle. And then came the cores- . Cottagecore, normcore, and coquette core all worked to categorize my femininity. While these cores unlock some people’s potential, I felt even more confused and scared. It was like I had to pick a Pinterest board and stick with it for the rest of my 20s. But to solve every impossible puzzle, you kind of just have to take a break. Maybe for a day, maybe for months. The thing that sucks about being human is that everyone could be looking at the same puzzle, but it’s a different puzzle for every fucking person. Everyone will have a different view of where you need to fit and even what you look like. There’s no point in controlling other people’s puzzles.

So I’ve been working on figuring out what the picture on my puzzle box even is. And it changes every day. But as much as I shittalk categories, morbid curiosity always finds a way back to me. As I explore myself, my true core, I come to love the flexible categories I allow myself to be. Today I am Redbone-core, and I cry Redbone tears and Redbone joy and Redbone curiosity. It may not make sense or be what people want, but I know how it fits into my puzzle, even if no one else does. But the thing about the pleasures of categorizing is that there will probably be someone else who feels they fit you and your category.

So if you feel inclined, join the Redbones. We’re still figuring out what it means, so help us on the journey of discovery. I just hope that I’m happy with the end result and that I don’t lose any pieces along the way.

ribbon cutting of my new journal

lailah mozaffar

I’ve spent my whole life struggling with the presentation of my femininity. Before I was told to be girly was to be weak or stupid, I was a proud “girly-girl.” As young as six, though, it was drilled into me that autonomy and girliness were incongruent. Quietly harmful comments like “no one’s ever going to take you seriously dressed like that” reinforced the idea that I have no say in what people think of me if I’m “dressed like that.” So many women in media dress as if power and autonomy precludes femininity, and if they don’t, they’re using their femininity as a tool for seduction. And when you’re seven years old, the seductress isn’t exactly a comfortable role to take on. So, I was le with one option: abandon my femininity if I wanted to retain any sort of autonomy. During high school, I permitted a “palatable” version of my femininity, but I quickly found that my peers and teachers were surprised that I had strong opinions that I voiced freely. My response: pendulum to the other extreme of femininity. Bright colors and loud patterns became staples. If my presence was undeniable, maybe then they’d listen to me. I found my power within my own presentation and it was a breath of fresh air—but it didn’t last long. While my bright presentation worked in high school, people in college assumed a level of naïvety that was limiting and condescending—and far too many people felt they had permission to take advantage of me.

In college, surrounded by other overtly feminine peers and still being tamped down was odd. At this predominantly white University, it’s impossible to ignore that my race plays a massive role in people’s perceptions of me. I realized back in high school there had been an expectation for me, as a half-asian woman, to be passive in my relationships—to not take up space. I just hadn’t noticed. In high school, I’d bristled with the fact that people didn’t like me even if they didn’t know me well. In reality, people were uncomfortable that I wanted to take up space where they didn’t want me to. I always thought that people had a distaste for powerful, feminine women—which they certainly do—but people especially dislike Asian women whom they expect to be submissive but refuse to be.

Quietly and unintentionally, my closet has become dark and dramatic. Once I noticed, I realized that I want to be a little jarring. If I take up visual space and people are a little intimidated maybe it means I can make room for myself to take up space and not be taken advantage of. I don’t like that I’m playing into the whole “rebellious Asian girl with dyed purple hair” trope, but thus far it’s been working. Moreover, if that’s the way Hollywood and white people differentiate the “submissive Asians” from the “edgy Asians” then the precedent was already set. If people want me to play their Knives Chau then so be it. I refuse to be tamped down in my relationships and if I have to wear different clothes to do so then that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make. I’m not weak for doing so, either. I’m not conforming. I’m taking control of the assumptions people make about me. Perhaps it’s manipulative, but my working within the system shouldn’t be demonized. I have so much more autonomy than I’ve ever had. My personal style remains to be a question. Little things, like my jewelry and propensity for skirts are certainly mine, the rest of it has yet to be figured out. Presentation is everything in perception and I may not be able to control people’s preconceived notions about me but I will happily find a way to make space for myself to be a person—through presentation or otherwise.

Emotional bandits

Couriers of violence Poisoning joy, What is their ploy?

How do I pass the hours? Toxic showers, Paranoia of the mundane, Triggered by the inane, Reality slipping, grip waning, I’m losing.

Smoking, choking on the fumes of peace, Maybe they are within reach? Make the pain cease!

Tonight, it is quiet; there will be an internal riot. This diet of scorning and mourning has grown too large a thorn.

In silence the brave are born, Insecurity shorn, My true self, who is she? Well, won’t we just see!

Reclaiming My Darkness by Kaitlyn Murray

artwork by SARA AMAR

She has no Maker, She is her only taker.

Her beauty elusive –Penny for her thoughts? No — those are exclusive.

Her guardrails encage her, Sometimes enslave her, Occasionally engage her.

Her knowledge is fraught, Wrestling, questioning –Never does she stop.

She turns to herself, Hey wait, are you a cop?

Nevermind that Miss, what is your next thought?

Next move, it better be smooth. It better be gracious, tenacious, But never audacious.

For she is a woman, Her caution is sacred. If she breaks it, I don’t know if she can take it.

Because then, she’ll be another one taken.

But this very next thought, Is hers and criminal, And sinful –It invites her and excites her.

It whispers, this life is yours, and you are its maker. You need no taker. .

Driving the black car down to the grocery store under the guise of buying some Phish Food. I could walk but music is better than silence and pesky pine needles in my shoes. e radio lights up the dash.

Where are we? What the hell is going on?

I spent nights as a child in my twin sized bed, quivering with fear and clutching my pink and flower speckled blankets at the thought of you ever dying. ere is a car coming at me in a cloud of dust and I am stuck face down in the middle of the dirt road to nowhere. If there is a God he is not listening. See his mockery in the clouds. Music bangs on the sides of my head. Let me out.

The dust has only just begun to fall. Crop circles in the carpet. What is to be seen now is merely dust. An infected port in your chest covers a hole filled with the infected body below. is dust tells me soon the building of my life will shake. No longer gleaming like dad’s old Riverside office building, a five minute walk down the road. e vacation home green paint on our house slowly chips at the touch of rotten leaves. ere are squirrels in the gutters.

Sinking, feeling e humidity in D.C. is a heavy wool blanket when I am already hot enough. Alone, it is okay to cry. ese halls, once a prize to be won, have rusted. My least favorite pair of earrings in my jewelry box.

Spin me around again e water runs cold here. Home is bliss and bliss is warm. I just want to feel my toes on a shower floor. Ignorance long since slipped between fingers.

And rub my eyes This can’t be happening.

Artwork by Isabel Vlahakis

Grace Tourtelotte

MY SUICIDE SESTINA

For my father, I was never enough. And I thought that if I died, maybe then he would love me. So I put the pills to my lips and swallowed, tasting death. But I was only a child, therefore, it was a failed suicide. Again, I was rendered incompetent as someone who desired to cease this brutal existence. Yet the Grim Reaper only twisted my arm.

Slits down my wrist, scars across my arms. How many times must I hold my flesh against fire? Enough already? From these feelings I beg for liberation. From this body, I desire freedom. From this life I crave an unconditional, consistent, easy love. Instead, I am confronted with the bitterness of my failure; left only with the knowledge that all people leave-- bitter to the taste.

The second time I tried to kill myself, I tasted indifference. My mind wanted to die and so I drew weapons, armed against my beating heart and breathing lungs. But my body failed once more to let me go. Will the abuse I endured be enough? The universe has an affinity for masacist love, through which death remains life’s ultimate desire.

Yet after the attempt, I feared who would find my body. I did not desire further traumatization for my sister, the sister who tastes only sweetness, whose innocence is palpable, and who I have loved unlike any other. The sister who I would give my limbs, my arms, my life for. The sister who is always more than enough. If she found me dead, it is her I would have failed.

And yet, I had already failed. Because she too had ceased loving, feeling, dreaming. She desired the end. She too was tired of suffering. She too had had enough. And so my sister sought death, just as I had, tasting the same pills, slitting the same wrists, scarring the same arms, because we had both been scorned by the same man who could not love. But then you tried to kill yourself too, my lover, my love, over the girl who had come before me. Over the relationship that failed I shredded my skin, razor blade, after knife, after lighter, my arms, contorted in disgust at the thought of your desire because you envied the boy who now tasted her. A jealousy you lack for me, because (for you) I am still not enough

And so I ask: if I killed myself would it be enough? To my memory would you all make love? Would you regret the bile you spat, the bile I still taste? I bet you would still think I failed. How I long to live the life I desire! But until then, I can only trace the ridges across my forearms

Jane Archer

Coalescence by: yasmin haddad

Why do I hate myself?

Maybe it’s because the first time I had sex He took off the condom And then he didn’t call back And I wanted him to call back I wanted him to call back even though I hated him I hated that the first time I let someone inside me

Know something about me I didn’t even know myself He raped me Because I googled it I googled the feeling I had The feeling of something was wrong The feeling of why I lied to my friends and told them I took plan B because the condom broke When it was never there to begin with And the definition I found was sexual assault Wait no It was stealthing A term to define what it feels like To have someone have more control of your body then you do To have someone inside you under terms you did not agree to To have someone not give you the opportunity to say no To yell it

To scream it But they don’t have a term for when you want them back When you want the person to call you Or text you Or when you want to give them another chance Because maybe they changed Maybe they saw what they did as wrong And they’d promise to never do it again And I’d believe them Because I really want to believe them

But I can still feel the soreness of the next day And see the spotting of blood on my underwear from my leftover virginity And the cold of walking at 8 am to Henlee to pick up plan B I want to feel like I did before When the condom was still on And I was excited to experience something new and intimate Of what it felt like to be wanted And he stole it

He teared it from me like he teared through my virginity He teared it from me like he teared away my youth My purity My body

My choice.

LETTERS TO MANY FEMINISTS

BY: KATHLEEN FELLI

Dear 1st Wave Feminists, I wish you would have realized that you didn’t have to divorce yourself from the abolition movement to win the right to vote. I wonder how the world would be now, how much “progress” would have been made if you had realized that the enslaved Black men and women of your time were deserving of liberation, too. Some of you say that you could only help them or yourselves. I call bullshit. When thinking of the past, I resent that your negligence made the journey to our future a steep, uphill battle.

Dear Lipstick Feminists, Coming from a person who had a serious “not like other girls’’ complex during adolescence, I wish I had known that I didn’t have to sacrifice my femininity to project strength. I understand your cause – we must have the right to present ourselves as we see fit, free of judgment from both patriarchy and feminism alike. That being said, you walk a fine line between subverting the male gaze and perpetuating it. e “feminist” part of lipstick feminism is imperative, for lack of intention in practicing your feminity as radical resistance inspires complicity in the preservation of gender roles.

Dear “Choice” Feminists, Women are capable of making bad choices. In fact, they make bad choices every day. To say that any decision a woman makes is inherently feminist renders feminism meaningless. If a woman is a head of state and she still orders her troops to invade countries and kill innocent people, she is no better than the war mongering men of politics past. Yes, autonomy is important, but we can fight for women’s autonomy without deceiving ourselves into believing that all women are feminists because they are women.

Visual art: Life Size Barbie By: Sara Amar

Dear TERFs, Fuck you.

Dear SWERFs, Fuck you, too.

Dear male feminists, Stop calling women goddesses and queens. Sure, if you use it as a term of endearment with your partner – it’s your relationship and not mine. But, deifying all women does not improve our condition. I’d rather you focus on the fact that, as a Black woman, I’m at a higher risk of dying giving birth than exalting me for having the mere capabilities to give birth. Also, don’t use your mothers, sisters, and daughters as the reason for your feminism. It implies that you are only a feminist for the women who serve you, the women who are forever bonded to you by blood.

Dear Girl Bosses, You’re better in theory than in practice. I like being identified with you in an ironic, purely superficial way. You’re known for having your shit together, for living a life of confidence that many dream about. Who wouldn’t want that? My issue with you is that you perpetuate this illusion that you are more productive than anyone else. You are the purported happy marriage between capitalism and feminism, consequently creating a generation of women consumed in productivity culture. You make TikToks about how to grow your business, wearing suits made by “girl workers” who are paid in pennies. Do I really want to be you?

Dear Betty Friedan, You are the ultimate white feminist. You said that the worst thing that a woman could be is a housewife and we as feminists have had to recover since. Nothing worse than being subjected to domesticity? Really? How about slavery?

Dear bell hooks, I miss you. You taught me that theory didn’t have to be dense and full of dead white guys who could only imagine the conditions of marginalized people. You wrote your lived experience in prose so accessible, I felt the urgency for liberation. bell hooks, I want to be like you when I grow up.

With love, Kathleen Felli

collage by tara petronio