Bossier Issue 4 by Bossier Magazine

BOSSIER BOSSIER

ISSUE 4 | SPRING 2018 ISSUE 4 | SPRING 2018

by Michael Castaño & Olivia Jimenez

Editor-in-Chief: Elizabeth Cregan

Creative Director: Dan Rojas

Managing Editor: Olivia Jenkins

Layout Director: Olivia Jimenez

Art Director: Jubilee Johnson

Head of Outreach: Isabelle Groenewegen

Head of People: Jessica Li

Business Manager: Sydne Scales

Editors: Ceci White-Baer, Lana Nauphal, Ciara Hockey, Jocelyn Ortiz, Sienna Brancato, Madeline Budman

Designers: Charlotte Böhning, Bianca Corgan, Avni Kulkarni, Joosje Lupa, Julia Medellin, Grace Perret, Mai Pham, Sidney Wertimer

Creators: Sinclair Blue, Anita Kelava, Francis Kpue, Aire Miranda-Antonio, Sophie Septoff

Illustrators: Layla Gorgoni, Kimberly Jin

Social Media: Chelsea Luo, Ankushi Mitra, Caitlin Peng, Eliza Phillips

Web: McLean Corry, Christina Coughlin, Mayeesha Galiba

Video: Claudia Chen

Newsletter: Narisa Buranasiri, Bethania Michael, Brittney Sweetser

Marketing: Alex Dekkers, Nyana Morgan

Development: Elaine Liu

Cover: Layla Gorgoni

Font: Garamond (body), Fat Frank (title)

Contributing writers: Charlotte Böhning, Samu Boyne, Sienna Brancato, Madeline Budman, Narisa

Buranasiri, Hanna Chan, Elsie Coen, Anna Crowley, Michele Dale, Maydha Dhanuka, Mayeesha Galiba, Abigail Glasgow, Larenz Griggs, Margot Hibbs, Molly Howes, Joseph Igoni, Iesha Ismail, Olivia Jenkins, Olivia Jimenez, Jubilee Johnson, Dania Kawar, Rachel Lock, Joosje Lupa, Cira Mancuso, Sarah Martin, Flossie McCall, Melissa Morgan, Kosi Ndukwe, Eleanor Ondeck, Caroline Porterfeld, Sophie Septoff, Maya Silardi, Gaby Walton

Contributing artists: Samu Boyne, Narisa Buranasiri, Stephanie Dekkers, Marina Gelardin, Abigail Glasgow, Isabelle Groenewegen, Daisy Hoang, Cameron Hull, Olivia Jenkins, Olivia Jimenez, Courtney Lee, Alondra Navarro, Aly Pachter, Janeth Preciado, Koyuki Sakurada, Sophie Septoff, Juliette Silvain, Mika Skibinsky, Michelle Zhu

Founded by Michele Dale & Tiffany Tao

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

and follow our Instagram at @bossiermag

See all content from the contributors on our online edition at bossiermag.com

Dear Bossier,

What a daunting, chaotic, and lovely blessing you have been to me this semester. As I have been for the past two years and will continue to be probably for the rest of my life: I am grateful. I am grateful for you and the people you have brought into my life. I am grateful for the way you have pulled back the curtain on so much fantastic art, so many beautiful words, so many sentiments with which I may otherwise have never come into direct contact. Tank you for the way you challenge us to be empathetic––and for generating discussions on how we can be more for the people around us. Tis semester, there have been many a moment where I feared that I didn’t know what I was doing. And maybe there were, in fact, many a moment where this was true. But here’s the thing: you gave me room to learn and grow. You never demanded perfection, but rather an open heart and an excitement to keep going.

Tis new position was––and is––scary; I have big shoes to fll (@Michele please come back to the Hilltop!), but not for a single moment was I alone. I want to take this opportunity to not just address a personifed version of this magazine I love so dearly, but also the real people that have made this possible: our incredible staf, for their honesty and positivity and pure joy about getting to carry out this dope mission; our artists and contributors, who have made Bossier a home, and who have made the decision to be vulnerable with us; our founders (currently of on new adventures but soon to return), who gave us such a gift when they created this publication; and to Dan, the most perfect partner-incrime. To all of you––and to you, too, Bossier––know this: I will never take you for granted. You poured your heart into this issue, and for that, know that you forever have mine.

Love to love y’all,

Dear Bossier,

It was the fall semester of my sophomore year when Tifany Tao marched to the front of our shared Walsh classroom. She presented Bossier and its mission and I was instantly enamored: a forum to explore identity through art and writing, a way to unite a disparate creative community that was clamoring for a platform to express its deepest thoughts. I approached her and asked about the layout team and if I potentially had a place on it. A few weeks later, Michele Dale and Tifany Tao entrusted me with the greatest responsibility and greatest purpose I had yet to experience in my little life: I was appointed layout director of a fedgling magazine––a magazine that through sheer tenacity and love has grown to what it is today. From there, I began to experience a space that I had yet to occupy at Georgetown: one flled with the feminine––an energy that can’t be replicated, a space that I grew to respect as sacred. I want to thank Michele and Tifany for that frst leap of faith I may have never taken without them; I want to thank the B-Team for entrusting me with an even greater responsibility––that of creative director; but most of all, I want to thank you.

When I address Bossier, I’m addressing you: the contributor, the reader, the community, the team member, those who support and live Bossier’s mission everyday. To the contributor, I want to thank you for entrusting us with those feelings and thoughts that may go unheard, the ones that are only spoken to the closest of friends. To the reader, the evolution that Bossier has undergone is all thanks to your embracing it with open arms. To the community, my motivation is derived from your support. To the team member, it’s obvious––all this organization does is thanks to you. And to Liz, I couldn’t do this with anyone else. To Bossier, you are the thing that I never knew I needed; you are the home at Georgetown that I never knew I would fnd.

Love,

by Juliette Silvain

BLACK HAIR

LONG BLACK HAIR

LONG BLACK HAIR HAIR LONG

LONG BLACK HAIR

LONG BLACK

LONG BLACK HAIR

Tere is something

LONG BLACK BLACK HAIR

Tat makes me uncomfortable

LONG BLACK BLACK HAIR

When I am surrounded by what I’ve been told is feminine

LONG LONG HAIR HAIR

A bird

I used to think it was the jacana

Which defes Bateman’s principle

I thought I wanted to be a jacana bird

My ftness not limited by my ability to gain resources

But by the number of males I could mate with

I couldn’t watch my mother

She was in service of a gaze

Her composure and what she draped across her breasts

Te smell of burnt hair lingers in my nostrils

She was in service of his gaze

I learned slowly that she was sculpted

And even more slowly that

I did not want to be socialized

To look at myself through his eyes

So I thought I needed his eyes

But it wasn’t just that I wanted his eyes

I couldn’t think of one badass woman

Tat I looked up to

I knew fucking amazing, powerful women

I loved them but something in me

Something in me said a role model

Is someone that you hoped to be one day

At one point in my life I felt that femininity

Was only in service of the male gaze

And I was repulsed

I wanted to be my father, not my mother

Even though my mother loved me more than anyone

LONG

LONG BLACK

LONG BLACK HAIR

But soon I realized I did not want to be empowered, segregated from the rest I wanted my home, my brothers to see me as the same

LONG BLACK HAIR

LONG BLACK

LONG

LONG BLACK HAIR

I wanted people to stop looking Stop looking at me and seeing woman

I wanted to see me in her

But I was not a jacana I never wanted to be one

I was not defned by her inside I was not a jacana bird For her womanhood Is diferent

I am not a zero or a one I am undefned

Put me in a box you’ll never learn Tat my womanhood is as trivial as my long black hair

I want you to see me frst frst

by Sarah Martin

LONG BLACK HAIR

HAIR

black hair

LONG BLACK HAIR

BLACK HAIR

HAIR

LONG BLACK HAIR

LONG BLACK HAIR 9

Shadow Puppets

by Narisa Buranasiri

bodies of jasmine / bodies of silk, iron, and bone / bodies of trafc lights and elephant tusks / bodies of mango skin and concrete / roots, uprooted / bodies of / bodies of plastic relics / bodies of clock hands / stilettos and elevated cortisol / bodies of stale rice / public wif / bathroom porn and iphone compatible prayers / sathorn alleys and butterfy knives /

bodies of grafti / pigeons in kerosene fumes / infected sak yants / runaway buses / bodies of monsoons and semen and needles / bodies of imploding tomorrows / spiked blood

and apple hookah / gutters of cleavage / belly rings / strobe lights / roaches drowned in lighter fuid and a stranger’s shapeless mouth / bodies of bile / bodies of nerves fried like khao san crickets / singha curses and neon paint / faces of ancestors in laughing gas trances / electric ghosts and loves lost to black markets / swarms of horsefies / internet cable nooses / bodies of buddhas collecting dust and stolen gong chimes / garlands turned handcufs / bodies of camoufage and red shirts rioting in siam / bodies of hollow chants / bat fowers / bodies of long may he reign /

bodies of ash from all nine cremations / bodies of forgotten sanskrit and barbed wire / bodies rusting in this night of tar-crusted stars / clouds like pale fsts punching down skyline and when the gravel breaks / bodies burning stillborns for good luck.

To Breathe Underwater by

Narisa Buranasiri

Exhale My mother plays Yiruma on repeat, guts basa on the kitchen foor. Graceful is the fllet knife slicing anus to gill in a single note, the diminuendo of entrails and silver scales. In the sink, mussels break open into bass clefs and the prawns begin to sing. I behead them in triplets, apologize for burning the rice again.

Inhale I net styrofoam krathongs from the Chao Phraya, make wishes on water strider zodiacs and abandoned bicycle bells. For the drowned south. For Phra Mae Thorani who has not stopped wringing her hair for years.

Exhale Don’t ask me why I’m thinking about the loneliness of milk teeth in a Little Mermaid musical box as I lick salt from a stranger’s navel. Or ask, and I’d say something about the temporality of bones and tails, dissolving childhood fantasies, a simile about the sea closing in on me.

Inhale All my succulents have died. I begin a water fast in mourning.

Exhale Like a terrapin, my cousin came into this world with a three-chambered heart. In a dream, he paddles with clawed feet, meets me halfway down the birth canal. Three times we mouth Namo Tassa and pierce bubbles of amniotic fuid with our beaks, one for every day he will not live. When the time comes, we foat him belly-up in the neighbor’s koi pond.

Inhale Maybe it’s only a little fu. I fush a spider’s web away with bile and this morning’s birth control, go back to flling my sketchbook with shells: A Venus Clam, a Baby’s Ear.

Exhale I fold a polaroid of my father into a paper boat, hum his favorite song to the running faucet. The sails come out uneven, one printed with a teardrop birthmark. I sharpen the edges with my teeth, tug the hull open with torn fngernails and when the bathwater pulls him backward, I understand where I inherited my ability to sink.

Inhale Tonight I fnd my muse in the arms of starfsh, the blue blood of horseshoe crabs. I open my wrists to birth a new ecosystem: no fsh hooks, no salted amphibian hearts. A guppy is pregnant with my grandmother’s pearls.

artwork by Narisa Buranasiri

OVERCAST

Tis poem was created from submissions by Georgetown students about their experiences with mental health on campus. Every line is taken from the words of a student.

tiring cumbersome

by Sophie Septof, Resident Creator

there is so much pressure to be the best, but not everyone can pressure to be around all the time palpable pressure to be having experiences that you’ll never want to forget very pressuring and there’s less focus on enjoying the things you choose all these pressures that it’s going to happen during college volatile complicated lost

just one more thing I have to constantly work on a maladaptive norm

sleeplessness, anxiety, and stress are benefcial to academic success. college puts me in this routine of constantly hiding it it’s always there and I can’t really do anything about it it sucks

I’m not just stressed

It’s stigmatized as being lazy or overdramatic college doesn’t give me resources to learn how to deal with it other than being overwhelmed or suppressing it unstable helpless barely hanging on it’s all a mental game classes squeeze everything out of you, and social life doesn’t do a great job of flling me back up FOMO

there’s always so much shit going on an environment of competitiveness trying to seem the most “busy”

I often feel a little bit embarrassed for not having as many clubs as other students

I just want to lay around for a while but I feel like I have to go out exhausting dangerous relentless

I’ve gotten rejected from a lot of things, and those were probably some of my toughest days on campus

it’s not JUST a club but it’s basically THE way to make friends and to exist on campus.

it’s like I’m constantly being told by the same clubs that I’ll never ft in. you feel like a loser you’re expected to be involved in basically everything. you are expected to perform at the same level as everyone dark hopeless needs constant upkeep

shitty––you feel alone even though you aren’t mental health is defnitely put on the backburner it can feel ostracizing to ask for help isolating as fuck

we’re left completely on our own it feels like drowning and looking around and seeing that everyone else is breathing just fne stressed deep room for improvement it feels impossible to have a “chronic” mental health issue trying to fnd time it’s also hard when classes require attendance when I’m having an especially bad day if I’m having a bad day or moment, sometimes it’s pretty impossible sensitive magnetic scared frustrated it’s like acupuncture, except not the good kind a whirlwind of emotions that can make you feel lost it feels like the ground on which you stand is shaking, not so much violently as lethally, and that it can, and will, inevitably crack into not two, or three, but innumerable shards a whirlwind of emotions that can make you feel lost scattered human

Two for One

By Stephanie Dekkers

I am part of a pair, one of two, half of a double. Double take, double decker, double trouble.

by Elsie Coen

my father works at a standing desk now.

in the far corner of our dining room he stands there facing out the window with the chill of the draft in his face and in his shoes.

his hip dips slightly in the khakis that mom gave him for christmas in two-thousand and fourteen. the cufs are tattered from the rough cement sidewalks along his morning cofee route.

a four-shot latte with whole milk, it terrifes us— the baristas know him, “david,” they cry “how are you today?”

he stands in the bright light of the dining room surrounded by the white walls

and the pets lie at his feet, the dog for which he cares more about than nearly anything else in this house aside from the blossoming house plants with their pink fowers, and the christmas cactus.

Eighteen by Sophie Septoff

I-

Stuck

by Flossie McCall

Ck Ck Ck

“Stuckness” is what Federica the yoga teacher called the tightness of my hips.

“It’s the stuckness…you’re holding onto emotion.”

I know my emotions are not isolated like this––we disperse. We do not compartmentalize. We live in the arches of the feet! Check us out, Federica.

Running back and forth on the same set of tracks

Back and back and BABY

Surrender baby, Sweet Lady Love––let go!

Is what I want to shout to my mum when she won’t go up into bridge.

Tis means she is afraid.

Having her chest exposed like that makes her want to cry.

I tell her it is good.

I even pay people to inscribe these words.

Today I put on a foaty dress that hits right above the knees and gives me little girl shins. When I ask what I was like when I was a child it is not out of vanity.

It is the incessant need to know why and when the stuckness came. Te going over and over.

And I am swirling around the bar because I am swirling through these people to this song

Not because I am drunk

Not because I am fucking letting go.

Te next day––a daylight moon––spring weather in January!

My boy is here I feel right

I feel LIGHT. Right light light right the light is right you are right you are light.

Pick me up and fucking swing me around.

Fucking tickle me, world!

Lips on my neck, world! Broken breaths!

Fuck the Tinder swipes

Te broken breath

Is moving me and I want it.

StargirL

by Koyuki Sakurada

Makeup

by Maydha Dhanuka

my room smells like lilacs and I smell like lilacs––lilacs and coconut, to be exact.

I painted myself in scents and lay on my bed to be inviting for you, to be picture-perfect pretty.

it didn’t work as well as I thought––no matter how doll-like I look on the outside, my mind got the better of me, my mouth ruined whatever success I had.

my brain, dark, rotting, chaos, lush with fear, spilled out, leaking my secret thoughts.

and it all goes south as you see who I really am. tomorrow, I’ll wake up, paint myself again, try again,

I’ll smell like lilacs and coconut, and dark chocolate, maybe, (I want to be good enough to eat)

and maybe then, I can fool you again.

On Being 20

by Michele Dale

Writing about this age and how I feel right now is similar to getting a tattoo. It commemorates something, immortalizes it (until I decide to hit delete or get it lasered of, of course), but it’s also something that I will probably scof at years later, emboldened by the knowledge my new age will have brought me. In the case of both this essay and the tattoo, I hope older me remembers who I was when I did these things. It’s her I’m trying to preserve.

I was walking across a bridge yesterday, a very old bridge that has been there much longer than 20 years, possibly even longer than 200 years, when I noticed that I was 20. I can no longer say the word “teen” or hold up fngers to illustrate my age––I am 20. 20! I now belong to the decade of people who pay taxes and own houses. On the continuum of adulthood I am just at the beginning, but my time as a kid, with all its room for error, is almost over.

I have spent my whole life waiting to be older, to fnd a job and an apartment and friends and a boyfriend and a dog: waiting for my life to be mine, to really start. On the bridge yesterday I realized that I want to be 20 for a very long time. To further explain this, we must return to a few recent events:

Te frst involves a 70 cent baguette, Bob Dylan, and cobblestones. I have always been a fâneur––or fâneuse, if you will. I am convinced I need nothing more than my own two feet to make me happy. Walking at dusk––wandering, really––with a baguette in my hand, I watched everyone exit their ofces, close up their stores, strut towards the bus or mount their bikes. It seemed to me more like a well-rehearsed dance than a concurrence of random events and parallel lives. Yet each person walked as if swathed in bubble wrap, only concerned with their immediate surroundings, paying no mind to each other or the pensive American girl with earbuds in and crumbs on her scarf.

Te next involves the Pacifc ocean. I’ve watched the Pacifc swallow the sun twice in the past 300 days. Both times, I thought about the swirled orange and pink sorbet I ate as a child––the sorbet that comes in huge containers and whose very favor, I believe, is “orange and pink.” Under the hypnosis of the Pacifc, I could make every declaration, keep every promise, remember every detail. In fact, on those nights, the sun disappeared behind the ocean because I absorbed it, took it with me, became full.

Te last involves pillows, wet and streaked with black that would echo back long cries if only given a microphone. It’s a funny thing when rage takes over someplace where you’re not alone, where you’re suddenly on the outside looking in at the lost girl who fnds herself in her anger and does not bite her tongue, but instead gives a voice to the glaring truth all of the adults thought better to ignore. A funny thing indeed.

I never want to forget the overwhelming feelings of wonderment, love, and rage I experience now. I don’t want to be jaded; I want to be wise. I don’t want to stop appreciating the uniqueness of those I spend time with. And I never, ever, want to be desensitized to the point of apathy. I can’t stop feeling. I want to continue to be overjoyed, then destroyed, then enraged, then determined to fnd a solution. My body is swept away by these emotions, my toes tingle, I hear blood rushing in my ears, my core feels lighter and a smile sits on my lips.

And so, I am convinced that it is a beautiful thing to be 20. We are unfailingly teased for our naiveté, but I choose to revel in mine. Te greatest asset we’re given when we’re young is the absence of negative reinforcement. It allows me to believe in the power of possibility and to hope for change. I decided yesterday on the bridge that I want to be 20 for a long

time because I don’t know how to sustain this feeling, how to never give up on the world and never give up on myself. I’m scared––terrifed, actually––to fall into the complacency that so strongly grips some of those in the “real world.” Complacency is not only the death of youth, but also a danger to progress. I certainly don’t have all of the answers but I know I don’t want to live a complacent life, devoid of feeling. To me, that’s not really living at all.

She asked me what it’s like to be

Exotic & diferent & treasured A jade hairpin, golden ridges glistening in the sun.

What it’s like to be

A deep, dark fantasy

Floating on the wings of bedroom dreams

But not too dark —

Just light enough to be seen.

To be wholly defned & redefned & undefned By your strength & style & means.

To be everything you are

In spite of your body as a vessel for someone else to feel free.

And so, through clenched teeth I smiled

Trough almond eyes I glimpsed

Te idea of a statue of a woman replicating a human being pretending to be me

And I asked,

What do you get for liberating someone who is already free?

by Hanna Chan

who is the patriarchy?

artwork by Sarah Martin

FLOWERBOY FLOWERBOY FLOWERBOY FLOWERBOY

by FRANCIS Resident Creator

Models

from left to right

Artist’s Statement: I created Flowerboy, a photo series capturing black men posing with fowers, to counter all of the toxic masculinity that black men are so accustomed to.

I wanted to make a statement. This shoot was in a lot of ways an act of resistance. I wanted each frame to show all of the boys at their most vulnerable. I thought to myself, What better way to challenge fragile black masculinity than with something as fragile as a fower? When black men are as fragile as the fowers that we are posing with in the frames, I actually think that we become stronger and more in tune with our emotions and the world around us.

DEVIN NICK TK

RASHEED

Floating Journey (浮遊の旅)

A journey borne with tense Memories afoat, constant parts Of a world, lacking sense For the ones with aching hearts.

Ripped away, into a current Raging, constricting, destroying, But the memories, not yet burnt In a limbo, constant, buoying.

Te push and pull, almost gentle From pain, pulling backward Against a community judgmental, Toward release, pushing forward.

Safety and comfort, picked away Leaving behind a vulnerable Body, limp, fimsy, gay And tears, irrecoverable.

Poem and artwork by Samu Boyne

In spite of this past, dark And troubled, in light of taken Innocence and aching marks Tis voyage continues, unshaken. I foat.

THEORY SAVED ME

“

Teory emerges from the concrete.” - bell hooks

Tat resonates more for me than any other line of the three works assigned for this week. I am a straight, cisgender, white woman who goes to Georgetown University. You could say privilege emanates from my skin. When I found theory, however, I saw it feed my personal experience and resonate in a way that I could not quite vocalize.

Teory saved me. Two years ago my parents 35-year-old marriage fell apart. You may say “aww, boohoo. It happens.” And it certainly does. I saw fve daughters, myself included, see a man’s infdelity take on a monstrous form that made him a stranger. I saw a woman’s personhood, so deeply rooted in a role– as wife, as mother, as partner– crumble into bottles of wine and tears on aging skin.

Teory saved me. I sprinted to Reading Motherhood and International Women’s Rights like it was the end of a track-and-feld meet. Tey gave me personal, they gave me political, they gave me comfort. When my family realized that any semblance of money we thought we had was in fact a lie, I gripped my new identity as an intersectional piece that I could share with others, specifcally other women.

Teory saved me. I found myself holding Judith Butler’s hand at work; her theories were what frst shattered my conceptions of gender and performance. I found myself making feminism more and more my sound. I got angry at home. I snapped in bars and threw Audre Lorde like a brick at ignorant voices.

Teory saved me. Two months ago I lost my father to suicide. Under the guise of a dinner date my sister and brother-inlaw handed me a reality that I had envisioned but never quite internalized. A sense of pride that formed a toxic cloud of masculinity wrapped its tight arms around my father’s neck, stole his breath, and took the ground out from under my feet. He was not a day-to-day fgure in my life––he was an abstract concept, words on an iPhone screen with a text that made me laugh or a FaceTime that pushed my buttons. I fipped frantically to the pages of Intro to Sexuality Studies and Michel Foucault where my dad’s gendered expectations of himself echoed. I grew sad again to envision a loneliness he must have felt.

Teory saved me. My body is more than what you see on the surface. My body, at age 21, is quite worn. With these new burdens on my shoulders, I feel tired. But I have a hope that does not inhibit my action but instead writes essays and drives me to the polls. I have a womanhood that makes reading a form of friendship, and academia a sense of release.

Teory saved me. I wish it could have saved him.

by Abigail Glasgow

a Wire”

“Birds on

by Abigail Glasgow

Dear Captain

“O captain, my captain.”

It’s been a year now, can you believe it? I saw a photo of us yesterday and I barely recognized myself. I wonder if you ever fnd yourself trying to remember who we were then, who you were. Who was I? Do you remember me?

I never got a chance to tell you that I didn’t need help understanding Calculus. I knew how to solve the problems on my own, I just liked that you were so eager to teach it to me. You were always so patient with me.

Tere are still a few things that remind me of you. I haven’t done laundry for weeks because my detergent smells like you. I never chew gum anymore. Te sound makes me think of you and your laser focus, chewing away at a piece of gum until it’s lost its favor and you’ve lost your concentration.

I’m going to London for a year. I wanted to call you when I got my acceptance letter. I still want you to be proud of me. Are you? Are you proud of me, my old friend?

You always told me that I was made to do big things. I wish you would have told me what those “big things” were because I am lost. I can’t see my future clearly. Did you lie to me, my dear? When you promised me that I would change the world? How could you be so sure? Tat was years ago. I am diferent now. You’re diferent now.

Would you notice me if I passed you on the street? Would we exchange smiles as we kept walking? Would we stop and embrace? What would you do? What would I do? I guess there is no “we” anymore. Tere’s just me. Tere’s just you. You––

I saw a man in a cofee shop today who looked like you. I couldn’t stop my breath from pausing. I couldn’t stop my pulse from skipping a beat. He ordered a black cofee. I knew at that moment that it wasn’t you. He wasn’t you. You don’t drink cofee. Do you drink cofee now? I told you that I drink my cofee black so that the sugary creaminess won’t fool my taste buds into thinking that there will be anything but a bitter aftertaste when the cofee leaves my tongue. I waved goodbye at him as I walked out the door. A perfect stranger, but somehow I felt like I knew him.

When I was thinking about all the places that I wanted to travel to when I go to Europe, you crossed my mind. We were going to go to Italy. You wanted to go to Venice. I wanted to follow you.

I think I’ve found myself again. Do you know who you are? Do you need me to remind you? Have you lost yourself, my love? When will you come back? I have been here for too long, waiting, watching, sitting. I am weary. I think it is time for me to rest now. I cannot stand guard at the window anymore.

by Olivia Jenkins

She is dancing because there are sprouts and that has always been enough I have asked my mother to tell me the story of fullness To grow life inside her and bear the weight of the future Tere is only so much stretch a stomach can handle Before it needs to spring clean and birth a fower

Women’s feet are always dirty because we are busy planting the seeds of courage Learning how to hold each others’ key-fst hands at nighttime Walking barefoot with glass ceiling shards underneath us We are only little girls when we start to carry fear in our backpacks

Blossoms are withering in the masculine heat, their fruit not ripe for picking We are being plucked from the vine by men who like our bitter taste ey spit out our sunbloom innocence like fower seeds Little girls’ futures strewn across cracked soil and covered by the winds of time

It is always women digging through the earth, aching to recover their shriveled children eir sisters hidden underneath miles of dirt dunes, violent slants of dust and shame It is always women clawing to break through to the surface Wondering just how the soil from which they came could become such an infertile place for girls

I am survival, a thousand times over; woman, a thousand times over I am alive, a thousand times over; sister, a thousand times over And I will shove through the soil until my hands are dripping in past lives e women that should have been bursting alive lying silent in my palms

If I am not at home and you cannot fnd me, Do not look for me indoors. Follow the trail of soil and sun stains; I am out gardening.

by Eleanor Ondeck

Get Laid (in the summer)

by Jubilee Johnson

Get laid (in the summer)

Get laid, Smooth on the edges, all the way to your nape Put my scarf on the circumference like a cape Curly weave or perm, roller set, not do’ Not Erykah Badu, not talking about you Keep your nails done, and your weave tight Hair did, looking right, Ahead

Baby hairs get laid, Unless summer heat reverts what you paid For, until the naps underneath relaxed Processed start unearthing in the kitchen

Not curly, but peas, behind your ears, please Dominican woman got Dax and a brush Little hairs is sensitive, fne but not enough Block party, dancing, pumping hard and tough Baby hairs get unlaid, undoing what you done paid For, roots shifting to kinks

Tat links you to the knotty-knots

Days ago, wash n’ go, between your mother’s thighs Tugging hard she made you cry Worship that good hair, worship that skin fair Edges mad slick, slip on that d**k

Baby hairs devirgined in the summer, getting laid with gel

It’s hotter than hell, Out here, Box braids, kinky twists, all colors, and waves

Low cut fades

Last you for days My hair Get laid, In the summer

Halloween

by Mayeesha Galiba

artwork by Marina Gelardin

Te scariest thing I could be for Halloween is the colonizer

What would I wear?

Tere isn’t a ready-made costume

Would I don the gaudy hats and brass buttons

Of my elementary school education?

Stuck in a time of the seemingly distant past

As if it was all stuck then And nothing remains now

Would my accent be lofty and archaic?

Using language that was once made accessible to my ancestors

As if it was all stuck then

And nothing remains now?

Would I recite my A through Zed Latin root of my Latin love

As if it was all stuck then

And nothing remains now?

Would I adopt disdain for my skin?

Wishing whiteness where it doesn’t exist

As if it was all stuck then

And nothing remains now?

Would I dip my hands in bright red paint

To bring forward the blood that drips from my conscience

As if it was all stuck then

And nothing remains now?

Would the children be scared of me?

I don’t say “Boo” but I am as grotesque as it gets

Or would the voyeurism of human beings allow eyes to meet mine Horrifed and fascinated, teeth bared in what could be either smile or grimace

Chest pounding, feeling the need to pull away and come closer all at once

Would you look at me like I was beautiful?

Once I’ve adopted the standards of stunning that sting me Or once the fetish disappears

And the blankness sets in

Would you rather I be a princess or a Queen?

Because God Save the Queen

But who will save me?

I love Halloween

But I’m tired of dressing up

In outfts that are deemed adorable or amusing

Frivolity is no longer my specialty

I want to be frightening

I want to be spine-chilling

Leaving behind the vessel of oppression

Coming into my power

And if there’s anything scarier than the colonizer

It’s the people that don’t want to be colonized anymore

Almonds

Sometimes I look in the mirror and wonder what it would be like to be a white woman

To have a name that doesn’t exist

In the space between the pause, the um, the did I get that right?

To have skin that violently changed to the color of cherries at the sun’s kisses

Not skin that welcomed each caress, darkening to juxtapose the light it took in

To have eyes that are miracles, not nuts

I never wanted to be an almond, but an ocean

Why can’t I look through the leaves instead of the bark?

I wonder what it would be like

To be able to speak the common language of the country I stand in

And have my words not be met with surprise:

You don’t have an accent

I used to be grateful at that sentiment

I felt I had defeated the system

My mouth only swapping my primary tongue for my mother tongue when necessary

I reveled in how unfamiliar it felt

How I stumbled over it

How easy it was to switch back and mask thousands of years of ancestry that came before me

Hey, I’m May, nice to meetcha!

I don’t remember when my name was shortened

Or how I felt when they chopped its meaning into bits

Was I crushed by the loss of the fnal letters?

Te loss of God’s blessing through my identifer?

Which do you prefer?

Doesn’t matter to me

I wasn’t lying, it doesn’t

But maybe my soul––the one created by an Almighty I still believe in, the one born into a small brown body in one of the poorest countries to ever exist––

Maybe my soul has a preference

Which is why I think I default to

Hi, I’m Mayeesha

Even to the lady at Starbucks

Even to the boy I shout loudly at in the club

Even to the educators who look at the roster helplessly

Sometimes I look in the mirror and wonder what it would be like to be a white woman

But I don’t think my soul would ever want to be

by Mayeesha Galiba

go back to Africa

I did not come from Africa. My mother did not come from Africa. My grandmother did not come from Africa. My great-grandmother did not come from Africa.

I cannot go back to a place that is not my home. I have no home. My bones have no place to rest. My spirit has no space to possess.

I am not welcome here. I am not welcome there.

go back to Africa.

I cannot go back to a place that is not my home. A place that accuses me of abandoning my culture. I have no culture. A people that criticize me for misrepresenting them. I have no people.

Do you know how it feels to have a soul that yearns for its home only to realize that it does not have one?

Te rich fertile soil of the Motherland calls to me. Te plentiful opportunities of the Promised Land entice me. Te vast darkness of the slave waters consumes me.

go back.

by Olivia Jenkins

gured it would be. Georgetown’s aesthetic beauty is still clearly there, as is the drive and passion behind Georgetown students. I chose campus life. Te other reason that I chose the photos I did is because I wanted to honor the black and brown people I saw within the as they always have, even Jack.

Wrecked

by Cira Mancuso

When I got tired of destroying myself, I started loving you, and that did the job much better than I ever did.

artwork by Marina Gelardin

chose to make even the modern photos black and white so that readers and viewers are still unable to distinguish between what is past the books, aside from janitorial staf. Georgetown has made much progress in the last 40 years however Hoyas continue to operate within

THEN AND NOW

by Aires Miranda-Antonio, Resident Creator

ARTIST’S STATEMENT: It started with an evening of pretending to be productive on Lau 2. I was wandering through rows of significant books and titles I probably won’t ever read when I found a strange collection called Ye Domesday Booke. The spines had all been crafted with intention and detail that only seemed real in movies. I grabbed just one to sit down with and opened it up to find a collection of old white men’s faces: this was quite clearly a yearbook. Finally, it hit me that this was Georgetown’s yearbook. I then ventured back to grab as many as possible. I sat down with each book, starting with 1900; however, the books felt lifeless and drab until the 1970’s––when people of color and women were finally accepted into the school AND acknowledged in the yearbook. Taking pictures that mirrored the energy of the images from the 70’s wasn’t as hard as I first figured it would be. Georgetown’s aesthetic beauty is still clearly there, as is the drive and passion behind Georgetown students. I chose to make even the modern photos black and white so that readers and viewers are unable to distinguish between what is past and what is present campus life. The other reason that I chose the photos I did is because I wanted to honor the black and brown people I saw within the books––aside from janitorial staff. Georgetown has made much progress in the last 40 years. However, Hoyas continue to operate within the campus as they always have, even Jack.

Dear Mama

I remember why I left. And I am sorry.

But this home houses the screams I stored away in the little cracks in my bedroom wall we repainted last year. It creaks of the times you drove away into the night, And sufocates me with the tears you’ve left in every room of the house. I promise I could hear you.

Dear Mama

Tis big bed is empty.

I sit here staring at the starless black and I remember how afraid I used to be that you’d disappear with it. Under this roof I am the helpless thirteen-year-old holding you as you sufer. Why didn’t you hold me, Mom?

Dear Mama

Te boys are high of their drugs and egos. Te girls are drunk on superfcial cocktails they stole from the liquor cabinets of their parents who make more money than us.

Tis city reeks of hatred and bitterness.

Dear Mama

It’s this house again. And I am sorry.

But it shrieks so loud that I can’t hear the life I have across the country.

Dear Mama

What did I ever do wrong?

You told me I was too invulnerable.

But how could I open up without letting another wave of you in?

Tey hate me.

Dear Mama

I’ve learned to bury my worthlessness. Lose myself in fake orgasms and blow jobs

Tat lock my jaw into the silence. At least I can hear myself.

Dear Mama

Te world is sadder than I want it to be. And I’m sorry.

I promise I will make you proud. Just far away.

From these people and this place and Tis house.

by Maya Silardi

artwork by Grace Perret

Teething

he has so many poems called “Teething,” my mother swooned. I should’ve done that.

I wondered why teething?

was it the many memories of the infants on your breast and how you valued the time spent with them and their tiny versions of infnity,

or does the word have some sort of higher meaning to you— the stages of yearning for new growth, the pain of waiting for a fnal product to come to fruition?

or does it remind you of our many visits to the dentist where he pulled my small teeth from socket and I stomped out with my new neon orange toothbrush in a goody bag and an elevated sense of pride, all for a bloody hole in my mouth?

there are many things you could’ve done, mother and probably many that you should’ve but it seems that teething has already been taken so fnd your word and run with it

and don’t be afraid to leave me behind, wherever I am, I’ll be waiting.

by Elsie Coen

GHOST

I’d like to be a ghost to be with you through the day.

You wouldn’t notice me and I wouldn’t be in your way. But I’d be content to never miss another word you say.

by Anna Crowley artwork by Aly Pachter

“Etch 40

“Etch and Etch in Mist, pt. 2”

byOlivia Jimenez

SOMETHING RAW

I’ve been trying to shed every inch of my skin like peeling of tights after a few blocks in the cold, so that I can sew you onto my best self.

I let myself bleed as butterfies attacked my insides in a frenzied hunger and I saw pieces of your soul pour out of me, pieces which frst got stuck between my thighs before fnding the river in my veins, and I felt guilty.

No matter how much I will them to, snakes don’t stop squeezing and don’t stop taunting me with the way they can shed their skin for their lovers.

But you’ve managed nd a place inside of me, and even from across the sea I still feel guilty every time I let some of you pour out of me, and I still feel guilty that that some of you hasn’t found better skin to live in.

by Olivia Jimenez

I saw your ghost today. I feel him with every step, every breath, every stray thought.

I saw your ghost in a sea of strangers, their faces lost beneath yours.

He’s in every sunray’s kiss, every blade of grass in every rippling feld, every one of my forgotten memories of you.

I heard your ghost in a distant laugh, saw him in kitchen aromas and brush strokes across canvas. Saw him scrawled into margins and as the blurs in my photographs.

I saw your ghost today, haunting, enchanting, illuminating.

Mere apparition, mere interrupter of dust, merely your ghost that I see.

Behind closed lids, I saw your ghost today. He’s in the corner of my eye, his handprints smudge my window panes, his touch lingers on my skin.

Skin that’s crawling and sweating and tensing with his essence; he’s in me.

I see your ghost wherever I go—I look for him in their smiles, I see his turned back rounding the corner, I see his dark hair, I see his eyes light up, and for a feeting moment, I think I see you.

And I long to see your ghost again soon.

` by Rachel Lock

YOUR GHOST YOUR GHOST YOUR GHOST YOUR GHOST YOUR GHOST YOUR GHOST YOUR GHOST YOUR GHOST YOUR GHOST YOUR GHOST YOUR GHOST

psycho girls club

We’re taking applications for the Psycho Girls Club. Many of you are here of your own volition—admitting that, despite women being characterized as “emotional,” we all can be a bit much. However, most of you were nominated through a “Yeah, my ex…she was so craaaazzzzyyyy”.

We don’t discriminate. Tis club is super inclusive—no interview necessary! Just submit your cover letter as to why you think you would ft in among the psycho bitches.

We take all those who have been shamed for speaking their mind.

Te sluts who spread their legs.

Te black women characterized by an angry stereotype.

Te hookups that asked to defne the relationship.

Te coworkers who said Me Too before Time Was Up.

Or, like me, the “psycho ex” with mental health issues.

So if you have been reduced to “crazy” by some one invalidating your emotions, share your story with us! We want to hear from you––let’s f empowerment through each other!

Email: psycho_girls@gmail.com

Phone: 1-800-CRZY

LinkedIn: Crazy Bitches Network

by Caroline Porterfeld

apply now!

art by Daisy Hoang, Alondra Navarro, Janeth

Preciado

the kind of morning sickness people don’t talk about is morning heart sickness

it’s like how when you have the fu, you feel the worst right when you wake up the nausea is immediate, the aches in your body are augmented the room spins and your head spins with it your eyes don’t even have to open ofen times they stay glued shut as consciousness returns to you in one fell swoop and the division between the indulgent ignorance of dreamland and the unseemly understanding of reallifeland blurs and there are ten seconds of blissful and complete blankness when all that matters is the warmth surrounding your body and the exhaustion that is laced with sweetness exhaustion that hangs in your sofened muscles exhaustion that dulls your usually over-heightened senses exhaustion that feels like a welcome barrier to typically tight tension ten seconds of foating between the spaces of your memories fashes existing only as fashes lacking tangibility lacking substance recollection escaping you giving way to the darkness of the eyelids that shield you ten seconds

my eyes stayed glued shut OH and I remember and suddenly I’m sick suddenly the cocoon-like safety of my too-pink duvet is ripped away from me the bed feels heavy, restricting, the sheets tangled around my ankles feel like chains holding me to this moment of remembering and suddenly I’m sick

but I can’t move, I can’t grab a trashcan, I can’t swallow a pill because how do you eject from yourself the wishing of the day to go away? how do you swallow the loss of something that made life beautiful? how do you properly oxygenate parts of your head that feel like organs simultaneously failing? and suddenly I’m sick

but heavy heaving doesn’t bring bile up my throat only acid to my eyes because how do you blink back bombastic memories? how do you recall a time when you didn’t feel like you were dying? is dying more painful than wanting to die? and suddenly I’m sick

but my neck is too weak to lif up my head full of rocks because how do you support the weight of regret that breaks you? how do you conquer the snapping of your thoughts like bones? and suddenly I’m sick

because there’s no way to hit pause on the chills that zip down my body on the pain that seeps through my pores on the desolation that cuts comfortably through my nerves and I don’t have the energy to fght back and I don’t have the concept of time and I don’t have the comfort of healing and I lay there, tethered to the awful and suddenly I’m

by Mayeesha Galiba

morning heart sickness

Kaddish for the Angry

by Madeline Budman

Exalted and hallowed be their great names

Josh, Ayla, Hannah, Hannah, Alyssa

In the world which God created, according to God’s plan Which includes childhood diabetes, suicide, terrorism, suicide, A 19-year-old with access to an AR-15 who strolled into a high school.

May God’s majesty be revealed in survivor’s guilt, Five mothers burying fve of God’s children (made in His image) Five standing-room-only funerals

Five young faces to remember all the days of our lifetime

And the life of all Israel— life extended through organ donations, Bones ground to make grafts for our troops, heart and soul harvested For another child who might live past ffteen. Speedily, imminently, they were taken from us. To which we say Amen.

Blessed be their great names to all eternity. Josh Weiner. Ayla Moskowitz. Hannah Bladon. Hannah Nathan Rosen. Alyssa Alhadef.

Honestly—

Cursed, insulted, desecrated, diminished, ashamed be the name of the Holy Blessed One, Beyond all possible words. In screams of shock. In cries of grief. In shouts and demands to the President. In the raw, throat-ripping sob of discovery. Holy Blessed One, You do not comfort. You enrage. To which we say Amen.

May we never be peaceful. May we be unrufed all the days of our lives. May we march. May we fundraise. May we raise our fsts in the air. May we defy the terrorists by riding the light rail, where Hannah was stabbed, the very next day. May we pass laws. Ayla’s Law. Hannah’s Law. Josh’s Law. May we pass a semiautomatic weapons ban named Alyssa’s Law. For us and all Israel, do not lull us into complacency. Keep us outraged. To which we say Amen.

May the One who brings us trauma, who refuses to let us forget, Bring action. Bring rage. Bring power. Bring strength. To us and all who are made in Your image.

To which we say Amen.

“Drowning” by Mika Skibinsky

Nostos, Algos: The Yearning to

by Charlotte Böhning

And I’ve never felt lighter or emptier or more lost.

Last night I took a trip to Saturn. And each step I took erupted in a cloud of dust the color of deserts. We walked in circles on safron piers of silk until the sun beckoned us near. And I’ve never felt freer. And I’ve never missed you more.

Last night you fed to the stars. You burrowed your soul deep in the Universe’s pockets and wore the constellations like a sweater. And I watched from Earth. Sadder than I’ve ever felt. And fuller, and more whole.

Contact

before i touch the next man i will love i want to plunge my hand inside his chest and hold his beating heart between my fngers and with it his hopes and dreams and aspirations

i want to hold the sleepless nights he spent worrying about if he will be a good father, and how he feels when seeing the frst snow of winter before he can hold me in his arms i want to know what they have carried i want to feel the grief of his grandfather’s death, the siblings they have held, the pets he has loved and the way the others before me have hurt him i want to taste the chlorine from the summer he inhaled pool water afer falling of the high dive in his tears before i touch the next man i love i want him to have touched my soul.

by Molly Howes

to the boy with the fery hair, i’m in love with you

i don’t know the frst thing about you where did you grow up? do you prefer the sand or the ocean?

what is the frst thing you think of in the morning? how do you make your cofee? do you even drink cofee? what is your mother’s middle name? what is your favorite tune?

i’m in love with you

we’ve never spoken so I make up conversations in my head because i’m too scared to utter them out loud

I’m in love with you

did we have an assignment today?

it’s such nice weather outside i love you

to the boy with the fiery hair

by Olivia Jenkins

Not What but Who

by Margot Hibbs

How many people remember this question: What do you want to be when you grow up? Probably everyone who’s reading this. The question is daunting, yet we are asked it from the moment we learn to speak at two years old. Sure, the idea of being a firefighter or doctor to save lives is compelling, or even the idea of being a famous singer, author, or producer. The question never vanishes, and even those who are situated in a seemingly perfect career can still face the uncertainty of what they really want. The thing about this question is that it asks what you want. This leaves us questioning what types of things we want to have as part of our futures. Too often, people get lost in the expectation to always know exactly what they should be doing in five, ten, or even twenty years from now. I am graduating from Georgetown on May 20, 2018 and I have absolutely no clue where my life is headed.

Throughout my years of high school, I always had a specific answer to this question. Freshman and sophomore year, I was going to be a surgeon. Junior year, I was going to be a professional and famous singer. Senior year, I was going to be a veterinarian. Even into my freshman year of college, I wanted to be an accountant in New York City. Now, I am just a matter of weeks away from the beginning of the rest of my life and I still don’t have an answer. However, rather than face the discomfort of not having a clue what I want to be when I grow up, I move forward with the comfort of knowing what I don’t want: I won’t be a surgeon or veterinarian and go through years of medical school, I won’t be performing at the Super Bowl Halftime Show, and I certainly won’t be an accountant at any point in my life.

But here’s what I do want: I want to be intelligent, well-spoken, patient, creative, poised, a loyal best friend, a good mom (someday way in the future), a respected employee, and an esteemed writer and reader. I want to be well-educated with an open mind and diversified background. I want to be exposed to as much of the world as I can. These are my future goals, and it’s through not knowing what I want to be when I grow up that has allowed me to explore myself simply as a human being.

I have changed my major six times in college. I took a gap year after graduating high school. I transferred to Georgetown after doing my freshman year at Fairfield University, and I took a semester off from Georgetown amidst a mid-college crisis. Each one of those events was unplanned, but it’s through all of these moments of fear, excitement, adventure, depression, loneliness, and happiness that I’ve learned how to be patient, articulate, a better friend, sister, and daughter––and to have a better understanding of the person that I am and hope to be.

So, maybe the problem isn’t in the answer we all seek, but with the question itself. What if “what do you want to be?” became “who do you want to be?” This opens up a realm of new questions that allow us to consider our character and the way we want to be remembered.

“Cityscape in Rain” by Michelle Zhu

13 Ways of Looking at Opa

I watch him bend his worn, gaunt head Toward a mug of tea with Soaking bread, in order to eat with ease.

II.

He traversed Finnish mountains On teetering skis

Like a bungling new duckling, knocking his knees.

III.

A mime among comrades, watching through Soviet fences as his best friend was shot.

IV.

A soldier and a boy Were one. A soldier and a boy and my Opa Were one.

Te truths I know to be truthful, Cannot nest in branches, But in the moment we picked roses As the slanting rain Pounded against us.

VI.

Te light crumbled softly through shades And tumbled like four Onto your baking counter. Kneading bread, back and forth, You were lost In devotion to Your life’s cause, the village baker.

VII.

O children of branches, Can you not see the beauty?

Do you not see the frail, elegant man Walking with walker in hand

Along a feld of a thousand yellow mustard seeds?

VIII.

I know abysmal truths And wonted, ineluctable perceptions; But I know, too, Tat these truths are not mine, Are not his.

IX.

When the war hawk few into sight, One nefarious man Ruined German men to come.

At the sight of my beautiful Opa, Moving in a tainted light, My inside ached for his sweet truth, To be worn as a coat.

XI.

We rode over generations Caged in an aluminum wagon, Allowing others to see Teir truths mirrored back to them. Te integrity broken between Heart and mind.

XII.

Te mustard fowers are swaying. Opa must be fying.

XIII.

At Midnight it was raining hard. It was raining And it was going to rain. And we went out To pick pink roses.

by Charlotte Böhning

Papa und Goldene Horn Straße

by Charlotte Böhning

Yesterday I followed you over the bridge

Te red bridge

Te red, rusting bridge

And listened to you

Yell stories over your shoulder at me

About the days

You and your buddies rode bikes on the rails

Of the red bridge, Te red, rusting bridge

Teetering boldly

Cautiously

Carelessly

Toughtlessly

Beautifully

Along the edge

U2 posters plastered

On the walls of your rooms

In your parents’ homes

Toy airplanes hanging from the ceilings

Motorcycles parked out front

And the girl next door

Hiding in your closet II.

Last night I dreamt about you I spent the sweet hours before sleep

Looking at photo albums

Of your young, timeless face

And that night

I pictured us playing in the forest And watched the life I imagined you had Before me

Like a documentary flm With light leaks And diluted frames

And I followed you to the creek And saw you baptize yourself In a gloriously blasphemous wade Among the lily pads

III.

And for a few, sugary moments, Watched the world through your eyes

As I foated on our back and we considered Te clouds gliding across the sky And felt them move in the refections

Under our body

And together as one

We drifted

In the warm glow

Of yellow green gold

Along the clear And dark

And comforting Creek.

by Marina Gelardin

No te preocupes

by Olivia Jimenez

Querido Abuelo, Te quiero con mi corazón entero. Pero, Abuelo, no te preocupes. El asesino es en el inferno ahora. Tú eres un héroe en nuestra familia, y tan valiente durante tu vida.

Papi,

You have had to witness the pain of your mother and father and sister and brothers, all the while experiencing it yourself. You were an innocent exile, a baby following the trails of your older siblings who had already marched to unfamiliar territory with heads held low. Abuela and Abuelo held you as they followed Peter Pan to Neverland: the United States of America. All the while, all the while, he sat in a room of guns and walls painted with blood, in his power throne made of bones, ghosts, and memories. he sat on your home, on your mother’s and father’s and sister’s and brothers’ home, with a lit cigar and a smirk.

Pero, Abuelo, no te preocupes. El asesino es en el inferno ahora.

Papi,

You grew up only 90 miles away from home, yet, to you, it was a faded memory, scenery in a deep-in-sleep dream. You made friends who shared this; you worked hard; your family worked hard with you; you fought to create a new home (not only for yourself, but for your mother and father and sister and brothers); you made jokes; you helped found a colorful community that was attempting to remake home; all the while, more and more waded through middle-of-nowhere waves to join it and escape him.

You struggled to instill home in your stubborn little daughters who grew up in Neverland.

Pero, Abuelo, no te preocupes. El asesino es en el inferno ahora.

No te preocupes, Papi, he did not beat home out of you or your mother or father or sister or brothers. he did not beat home out of your stubborn little daughters who grew up in Neverland. I felt home recently, when he fell of his throne of bones and ghosts and memories. I know he burned himself with his cigar on his way down; I know he fell further for his monumental atrocities––which can hurt almost too much to mention––than we care to venture.

You have gone further than he has ever gone. You’ve moved on to community and to friends and to college and to love and to family and to a light which he will never––can never––know.

Pero, Abuelo, no te preocupes. El asesino es en el inferno ahora.

artwork by Marina Gelardin

His idea of space

his idea of space—was simply diferent from hers. as if it were something hereditary, born into the shrinking feeling among the masses of air and cold and winter and bright stars and huge moon. he tried to show her, she couldn't fgure out why.

by Elsie Coen

Suspension

It starts with the artist as visionary, as creative catalyst. But the camera sees what the artist cannot: the passage of time in a single shot, the tangled dance of light and shadow, the immortality of a gaze forever locked in the shutter. Tere is a moment of suspension following the press of the button, when the artist is no longer in control, when the lens looks on with ambivalent eyes that perceive an ephemeral reality. Fatefully, it is this moment that is transmitted in the fnal image, which alone is left to tell the story. In photograph, the artist and her camera do not exist. In photograph, the subject is neither object nor person but a channel for some unspoken narrative waiting to be discovered. In the end, photography is and only ever was the making of a story suspended in time and space.

by Courtney Lee

Begin again as if you never had a reason to stop

Beginnings Hey Stranger

What’s Mine is not Yours

How lovely of you to think that you are so entitled, that my body belonged to you.

Within a moment, you became a blank face. Every time I apssed you on my way to class, Or caught a glimpse of you from across the hall, My body would ache, My stomach would drop, Our eyes would lock, And my heart would scream, “I miss you.” But I learned from my mistakes, And that’s what you were, A horrible mistake.

Recycled

I guess in a way I have to thank you. Because even though you ripped me apart, I used those broken pieces to make myself into a piece of art.

Why

I write to fll the holes in my heart and the pain in my chest.

Mo(u)rnings

And if I try hard enough, I can still feel your arms holding me tight as we laid in bed, Fighting over the cold spots under the sheets in the sweet summer’s night. Tis is the memory I hold onto, Because when I wake up in the morning, I see the crinkled imprint of where you used to lay, And I wish I could have made you stay.

Finishing the Story on My Own

You played such a big part in my story that I didn’t know how to write the ending without you.

Lies

Our love was the sweetest lie there ever was.

Some of Us Cannot be Healed

He thought he could love away her self destructive ways.

writing by Cira Mancuso

SALTWATER

You tell me how you dreamt of saltwater, of sea urchins tearing holes in my mother’s throat. You couldn’t remember how it ended, only that your thighs were damp when you woke and that morning, you painted a womb swelling with froth. Fingers still crusted with silver, you set a cigarette to the cracks of your lips. Smoke ripples over waves of tongue as you say my mother’s name is somewhere between the sounds

of sand nestling into heartline and seashells cutting fesh.

You let the ash fall, form a beach at the edges of your toes, wonder

where the breeze has swept her. You whisper something to yourself about the loneliness of seadrif as the rain begins to pool around us

but I shake my head, look up to these clouds like algae, to this blue night and understand we are both corals in this current, these invisible whirlpools.

By Narisa Buranasiri

Last week

We had a Full Moon A Blue, SUPER moon, in fact!

It was so powerful I don’t think I’ve ever felt more electric.

I wanted to reach out and touch everyone

With this semi beautiful, semi unsettling electricity. It was infectious. It always is infectious if you are keyed in.

“I feel like I’m moving 1,000 miles an hour.”

“I know.”

He knows - he just fucking knows and that is why I miss him.

My brother knows too. Te rhythms of my textsTe 3am heys, the silence, the “I’m good”, the “I feel so free - I just feel like I want to take pictures of everything!” Te wild beauty of everything and then the impulsive compulsive Ulsive ulsive sive slive sleeve live slither sieve.

Everything was rushing, it was all making sense And I was ALIVE. I asked a girl out. She paid for $75 worth of cocktails and pork buns and we hugged goodbye

As our separate ubers swooped in from diferent directions

In this funny little alleyway Where I had never been before.

Tis week I am so fucking tired.

I have realized I am not good at regulating my expenditure of energy.

SUPER BLU ENOOM

Cramming art history into my ammature cocktail brain Botticelli and Memling elli elli oh ini ardo…

I cannot remember your dates I can only remember Your fan-fucking tastic blues and golds.

Because I am depleted I am resting my voice.

Tending to my throat, the almighty signaler.

I have retreated to my room Massaging the knots the NOTS folded behind the wings of my shoulder blades.

Clicking n’ crunching. So fucking tense - and have I mentioned that I’m tired?

My right big toe feels numb Just like what happened to my lef one over the summer.

Except this time it is from the too cold, nervous air Not me strutting about Fort Greene

In my new Kork-Ease shoes

Twisting my ankles Stepping out onto fre escapes.

Does this sound insane? It is just so compulsive. Te need to get the thoughts out. Words have replaced my lover - I am sure of it. Put the pen down. Roll it, sigh it, all out and Go to bed.

By Flossie McCall

PERFECT RIDE

A frst gif

Te best and worst gif

A toy bike, made of surest plastic

Te blackest wheels and sleek red frames

Electric blue rims with the ‘Hot Wheels’ name Rode on what was ridden by boys next door

Rode those Hot Wheels across humble home foors

Not mother nor father knew this gif’s demographic

How strange to steer the innocent bike into such social trafc?

No, all they knew was their child’s purest joy

Pedaling on and on the new favorite toy

Chubby legs pedaled with all their might

On that sweet little red, black and blue bike

Ten the world looked in and scolded

Pressured the child to be molded

In the pinkest daintiness

You’re not a Mr., you’re a Miss!

Amiss were mom and dad for not making sure Tat their child’s toy was made for ‘her’

Shall those blue rims and black wheels be kicked to the curb?

No, mom and dad just pushed the Hot Wheels of slightly to the side

Bought a brand-new pink and white bike for their sweetheart to try

No surprise, the child’s chubby legs

teetered to one side

Her Hot Wheels knew her better, and so she took them as her perfect ride

by Iesha Ismail

Tat night

the smoke hit me like a foghorn. In the blur of the dark early morning sky, my body felt slightly of-kilter. Te smoke radiated through me, from the crown of my skull to my bladder nearing fullness, fnally seeping down to my toes. Tey twitched as sensation fashed in and away from their nerves. My white leather hi-tops scufed the dirt I was perched upon. It felt like sand. Like a beach that wasn’t fully a beach, the kind you fnd on the edge of a murky pond in late August. I scratched a line in the dusty sand like a mindless robot. Digging, scraping the short line, snapping the twig into a smaller and smaller instrument, scraping deeper into that crevice. It calmed me.

“Starr Lane.” Te name pounded in my skull; my head felt like the inside of a guitar amplifer. Starr Lane.

“Turn here,” he had said.

“I know where to turn. I fucking grew up here,” she said.

STARRLANE

“So did we,” the other boy giggled, “and so did she.” He looked over at me with glistening eyes.

I didn’t know where we were going. Sure, I grew up here, but I didn’t know where to turn. I didn’t grow up here in the same way that they did. Starr lane: a name that sounded straight out of a mystic young-adult novel. It reminded me of John Green’s Looking for Alaska. Or maybe I was just confusing the novel’s cover art — smoke billowing across a black background — with my preconceived notions of the place we were going. It was nestled behind Centre Street, right where I grew up. But I didn’t know where we were going.

I tried to look up at the sky every so ofen as I sat there. Te one A.M. sky blurred just enough that I couldn’t really tell if I was looking at any stars or not. I thought it would make me feel more grounded, less dizzy. Less like I was rocking back and forth on a dingy boat in a wide harbor. My right foot convulsed every couple of seconds. Gladly, the darkness and smoke disguised my spastic movements from the boys that sat to my right.

As they lit the second joint and it made its way over to me, my mind settled into a relaxed state of panic. I’ll just turn it down, I thought.

“I’m good,” I chuckled lightly to the boy next to me, thinking I’d played it of like an old pro.

“Not trying to roll too big tonight, are you?” he scofed. Tere was a lightness in his voice, but it embarrassed me. My weak defense mechanisms slowly tried to engage.

“Not afer last night,” I justifed. Maybe this would make me sound more grown up.

“What was last night?” his gentle voice probed. He turned back to look at me as he asked. His eyes were sof and caring, his boyish voice hinting slightly at a lisp. I was glad that he even cared enough to ask. But I found myself stumbling over my own words, trying to repaint the previous evening. Trying to justify my inability to keep up with the guys. Te guys who grew up here. Even though I grew up here too.

by Elsie Coen

Firsts

He gave me my frst love, my frst cigarette, and my frst betrayal.

In return, I gave him his frst broken heart.

I wish that I were last instead.

by Anna Crowley

6 things to tell a teenage girl

Dear love, I wrote this for you

1. You are and forever will be seen as the target. And the world with its greedy eagerness and its odd need to conquer is constantly trying to strike its arrow into your bullseye. But do not let this sick game try to tame you, your ambition, and your love. Instead see yourself as more. Because you are more. You are the target, meaning you are the goal, the endpoint, the trophy, the epitome of success. You, my sweet thing with your lively smile, infectious laugh, and burning passionate eyes, are what the world is striving to be. You are what is driving and thriving the very force of nature. So, yes, be the target.

2. Tey will tell you to be quiet. Because girls must be ladylike. Whatever that means... to them it means to quiet your voice, your thoughts, your mind, and to quiet your soul. Maybe it’s because they have a deep rooted fear to be near something so unique.

Maybe the way you squint your eyes when you are thinking scares them. Maybe the way you break barriers and speak with grace, yet can switch the pace and speak with intelligence and eloquence keeps them guessing about what’s coming next. So, baby girl, do not be quiet. Be loud. Be bold. Be unapologetically you. 3. Love your sister. And no, not the one you see every morning at breakfast. But rather the sister from another mister who you have no relation to. Te girl with the chocolate skin, the girl with the ivory legs, the girl who cries at night, the girl who never stops laughing, the girl who is shy, the girl who is the brightest, the girl who is not you. Love her because, like you, she is also a target in her own parallel dodging arrows like a scene from Game of Trones. She too has been told to quiet down. She is fghting the same war, but is in a difer ent battle. Love her. 4. Tat boy is just a boy. Tis needs no explanation. He is the dullest of arrows and never stood a chance. But you, being the kind soul, have to make the playing feld easy for him.

I understand pity and mercy were necessary as you too were searching for

by BJ

the same clarity in love. However, he is still just a boy, do not let his whispers of nothings or somethings dictate you and leave you fxated on false reality. Be more. Be patient for the man who will not only see you as his lovely target, his compass, his bullseye, but also would never think twice of damaging your core by piercing his arrow into you. Instead he will admire you and allow you to be you. 5. Tat girl.... is just a girl, she is confused and still your sister. Regardless of the love shared, kisses, secrets, and everything. She is still your sister, you will still love her and allow her to continue on her path unharmed, regardless of the pain she brought to you.

6. Tey will tell you, “you are just a girl.” As if being that is no feat... as if they ignored the crown on your head, your royalty. As if they chose to dispose of who you are and who you will become. Because there is no such thing as “just a girl.” You are just a queen who demands respect, just a target who they want to be, just your wildest dreams who they imagine is every bit of purity like you, you are what I should’ve called you at the beginning of this poem... you are a woman.

Lucky Twice

*All italics are quotes from Ralph Waldo Emerson’s “Nature” and “Circles.”

Nature wears the colors of the spirit.*

When you told me, the sky was grey. You were leaning against the stone wall and your cheeks wore red splotches from the cold. By the time it was over, the sun had come out. You said, “”See, we’ll be okay,”” and I had to smile because it was such a you thing to say. Te day we met, the sun was hot in the clear blue sky. Sweat dripped down my face and I was surprised you even looked at me twice.

A work of art is an abstract or epitome of the world.

I wrote my frst poem about you. I hadn’t written creatively in three years. You said this was the best year of your life. It plays like a movie in my head that takes my breath away.

I am the lover of uncontained and immortal beauty.

Being in love with you was like standing in an empty forest, staring up at the ancient trees whispering overhead, or witnessing a sunset tinged pink and gold over a concrete highway while stuck in trafc, or stepping outside and feeling the frst warm spring breeze brush your skin. I haven’t felt that exhilaration since I was a child, running wild in my backyard that felt like a jungle to me at the time.

Isn’t it lucky if you get to experience that feeling with someone once in your life? You said nothing lasts forever, but life is a cycle, and nothing ends in nature. Can you be lucky twice? Te soul seeks beauty and you were beautiful to me. I want to be lucky with you again.

Poem by Anna Crowley, Artwork by Isabelle Groenewe-

Trapped on a Window Seat

Trapped in the window seat, needing to pee But I daren’t awaken the sleeping people next to me

I’ve unbuttoned my pant, lowered my zipper God damn it this plane needs to land quicker

Haunted by my earlier insatiable thirst

I fear it’s only moments until I burst

Tey’re fast asleep, I’ve missed my change I guess I’ll just have to pee my pants

My whole body overwhelmed with pain

Trying to hold it any longer would be in vain

Out of the corner of my eye I spy some movement Could this possibly be an improvement?

My bladder full, my voice weak I politely ask if I may by them squeeze

My sweet relief so overdue in sight

i ate 9 dimes at 11

1 You’re So Beautiful - Reddish Blu

2 Not Mine - Miquela

3 Teenage Fantasy - Jorja Smith

4 Sticky - Ravyn Lenae

5 Shade - IAMDDB

6 Told Him - Lenis

9 My Way - Ivy Sole by Kosi Ndukwe

I realize I wouldn’t have been able to hold it the remainder of the fight

At last I arrive at the lavatory And thus we’ve reached the end of my story

by Gabby Walton

Have We Met Before?

a playlist for: daydreaming of the beginning, eating leftover gnocchi with your hands, crying on public transport between strangers, watching a place you love freeze over and defrost again, freezing over and defrosting again

First Love / Late Spring - Mitski

Te Ballad of Keenan Milton - Devendra Banhart

Have We Met Before? - Tom Rosenthal

I Don't Recall - Lavender Diamond

I'm Filled With Steak, and Cannot Dance - Sidney Gish

Drifty - Sjowgren

When U Love Somebody - Fruit Bats

Ghosts - Laura Marling Under Te Table - Banks

Hard Feelings/Loveless - Lorde

I Tink Ur A Contra - Vampire Weekend

by Melissa Morgan

7 Tank You Fuck You - Andrea Davidson

8 FRIENDZONE - UMI

advice from a college dorm room

let twinkly lights beneath your skin (and lit by red paint), light up your wrists and your neck and your chest.

let dust-covered bookshelves and graftied drawers exist for some time as reminders of those who have previously lived here… (of course, until spring cleaning).

please, do not place tacks in your walls. holes are much harder to fx than chipped paint.

if your blinds still let too much light in when you want it to be dark, understand that there are nooks and crannies where rest is still possible (perhaps, beneath your distinctive duvet).

please, do not feel ashamed when you are messy with pillows and clothing and books and journals and towels and blankets all over the foor. trust that you can be and will be cleaned up.

let memories hang proudly all over your interior, and your identity proudly on the front door.

do not shutter when someone speaks ill of you in your presence. they come from diferent rooms in homes that they miss and have stories which they might only whisper when they feel home in your walls.

by Olivia Jimenez photography by Rocco Graziano

How Young Thug Challenged Gender Norms in the Hip-Hop Community

Jef

ery Lamar Williams, better known as “Young Tug”, and his album cover from Jefery represents a dichotomy between hip-hop/black masculinity and intersectional feminism. To most people, it is a concept that he’s become infamously known for, even though they don’t understand exactly why he acts the way he does. However, Williams’ approach to rap is more important than one might think and more attention needs to be given to his impact on the culture of rap and, furthermore, the socialization of masculinity.

Tis facet of toxic masculinity in the hip hop community stems from hegemonic masculinity. Tis sort of masculinity acts as a practice that legitimizes men's dominant position in society and justifes the subordination of women, and other marginalized ways of being a man. In “GuyLand,” Michael Kimmel lays out the 4 basic rules of masculinity discovered by psychologist Robert Brannon in 1976. Te frst is “No Sissy Stuf” and it means a man shouldn’t be perceived as weak, feminine, or gay. Second is “Be a Big Wheel,” which means success should equal wealth, status and power. Te third rule is “Be a Sturdy Oak,” and this means a man always being a reliable safe haven in a time of crisis who is able to respond appropriately each time. Te fnal rule is “Give ‘Em Hell,” and this refers to a man’s “natural” knack for taking risks, having an aura of aggression, and paying no attention to what others think.

Tese socialized rules breed a culture of men policing one another by constantly checking the boundary line between masculinity and femininity. When someone doesn’t follow the rules of masculinity by stepping outside that boundary line or even tight-roping it, they receive an onslaught of degrading terms such as faggot, sissy, bitch and so on. Out of this culture arises a principle called hyper-masculinity. In this phase, men have become so obsessed with the basic rules of masculinity that they over-exaggerate and fabricate the very concept of what it means to be a man, thus making it impossible to attain. What’s worse is that this extreme form of masculinity ultimately leads towards homophobia. In his article “Masculinity as Homophobia,” Kimmel notes that masculinity is a homosocial enactment of constant policing and relentless competition. Homophobia is a central principle to our defnition of manhood. It’s more than and irrational fear of gay men or the fear that a man might be perceived as gay. It is derived from shame received for who seems sissy or untough. Homophobia is the fear that other men will unmask us, emasculate us, reveal to us and the world that we do not measure up, that we are not real men. Unfortunately, this form of hyper-masculinity as homophobia has had a negative efect on hip-hop culture which, in turn, afects the socialization of African-Americans.

Hip-Hop began as a platform to magnify the political, economic, and social injustices placed on Blacks by white supremacists and institutions that depict African-American men as a crutch to society and dangerous. Songs like “Fight the Power”, released by rap group Public Enemy in 1989, were made because America was neglecting the problems brewing in decaying inner city neighborhoods and with no traditional leadership fgures to turn to in the Black community (such as Civil Rights activists), many of the new leaders would be, for better or worse, rappers such as Public Enemy. Tese people made music to push back against the racist agenda of white supremacists who, through media, broadcasted images of Black men robbing, raping, looting and so forth. Tough none of these actions are moral, the reasons for some of these men’s actions were neglected and their voices were unheard. A lot of Blacks were born into a lower social class environment of crime and drugs and got caught in a systemic vicious cycle of oppression that was spearheaded by many epidemics such as the “War on Drugs.” Unfortunately for them, it was particularly difcult to break this cycle for economic and educational reasons out of their control. Some realized this, but those who didn’t began to believe in the narrative that painted Black men as hyper-masculine thugs, gangsters and criminals.

At some point, the very defnition of what it meant to be a black rapper became characterized as someone “from the streets” which essentially means being from that oppressed culture of violence, gangs, etc. Tese

days, even if people aren’t from that sort of background they come into their rap careers believing they have to at least look the part and rap as if they are from that background. Being from the streets equates to a rapper’s credibility. So how does a rapper from the streets look? Baggy clothing, a mean mug, posing with a gun in his hand, girls to his right and left, money in his pockets, and an expensive car in the background. What does this image remind you of? It is, without a doubt, an exaggeration of the 4 basic rules of masculinity and because of rap’s historical importance and widespread popularity it now defnes a facet of Black masculinity.

In 2015, one rapper by the name of Young Tug (Williams) chose to challenge this gendered norm. He burst onto the scene already in a heated feud with rapper Lil’ Wayne, who was considered the greatest rapper at the time. Te general population sided with Wayne not only due to his prominence, but more so because of Williams’ unorthodox, feminine antics. From time to time he called his male friends and fellow rappers his “loves” or “hubbys” and he was even seen wearing nail polish on several occasions. Not to mention, he admitted to buying/wearing women’s clothing because he believed men’s clothing was too baggy for his liking. Rappers and fans of the hip-hop community alike shamed Young Tug regularly for exhibiting such feminine characteristics. Even in the comments of his Instagram posts were gay slurs such as faggot, sissy, and even more hateful things. Despite the backlash he received, he dropped his debut album titled Barter 6 and while many were against listening to his music solely due to his feminine behavior, many others who did began to think: “Tis guy’s music is pretty damn good.” He then gained buzz in the music world and featured on many songs with prominent artists who respected Tug’s musical talent and his unapologetic expressiveness of himself through his continued feminine behavior and style of dress. Te rap community still considered him to be gay and continued to shame him, but Williams constantly denied these allegations of him being gay and even mentioned in one his songs titled Halftime in which he raps the words “no, I’m not gay…”. Regardless, his musical demand was skyrocketing and many wanted another project.

On August 26, 2016, Young Tug released his new album titled Jefery with an extremely controversial cover. Te cover features him, and only him, in a blue and white dress. Tis sent the rap world in an absolute frenzy because it was something that had never been done before, but this time, a lot of people didn’t care. Once again, Williams showcased his musical talents on his project and it landed in the top ten on the Billboard Top 100 albums. Te cultural meaning behind Jefery’s album cover, according to Williams himself, was to embrace who you are individually. In an interview for XXL Magazine, Williams talks about his style of dress: “I did it for the weird ones. I’ve always been into fashion. Rap is second; I just happen to know how to rap. Tose who are into fashion are always going to understand me. I don’t care if people talk about me. I’m just doing it so people out there know they don’t have to be scared.” Looking at Young Tug’s impact from an intersectional feminist standpoint, it’s easy to see that he is one of the most signifcant artists in the history of rap. Tis theory asks that we not divide ourselves into boxes of gender, race, class and sexuality; it acknowledges that these identities interact dynamically in any given situation. Te mere fact there is a rapper named Young Tug who subverts gender roles is a slap in the face to white supremacists who have painted the race of black men as aggressive, hyper-masculine, criminals who all look like they’re “from the streets”. Williams also challenges masculinity by changing how we see and do gender and how we immediately ascribe a type of sexuality to a person due to homophobia. Young Tug's impact will go down in history and it’s all because he dared to embrace his identity and that is something we all can respect. It's exactly what this society needs.

by Larenz Griggs

Ascension

by Rachel Lock

I said, do you want to drive with me to the ends of this earth. Do you want to leave it all behind, dropping loose leafets into the wind, carried and lifed and sent away on weightless breeze. Do you want to forget. To oblate past torments, to scatter their smithereens out of tempted arms’ reach. To pretend that there is nothing to forget—no exquisite torture to pick and pry at, that the root and source of it need not be dug out with gripped fngers and broken nail and the sharp ache of fowing blood. It never existed to begin with. We, too, don’t have to exist.

We can drive and drive and drive till the roads end and wilderness will be the sof carpet for our feet, for our intoxicating pursuit of sanctuary. Gentle spring grass in outward diaspora from crinkled toes and calloused soles carried by calloused souls. Callous can only form when skin can’t break, so it bends. It bends over and over itself, hardening and thickening, impervious, impenetrable.

So, too, will we be.

We’ll run on stumbling legs and collapse under remote stars, never shooting mindless inquiries toward unknown omniscience. Because the answers don’t matter. Tere can be no why if there is no what, and so, too, will we be. When the sun closes his waking eyes and opulent moonlight becomes our blanket, we will become oblivion. Black hole of ache, empty vessels flled with the warmth of nothingness. So, too, will be the world.

Echoes and clattering abandon, numb, vapid apparitions – these will be her mighty inhabitants. We alone witness the violent silence of forgotten souls.

So I asked you to drive with me. To the ends of the earth, to where hands clasp and lips purse with unspoken lies that need not be uttered. Tere is truth in the silence. Tis is enough.

And with the weights of these, we’ll pursue. We’ll carry on, dragging scars to the reverie of scrape and crackle. So come drive. Come to where ocean’s coy lips kiss shoreline and horizons are the mere infancy of beyond. Keys in ignition, squeal of tires, bound for the boundless, we start our ascent.

The Visitor

by Sienna Brancato

I dance into your fresh-from-the-bus arms and kiss you with frozen lips, out of breath and a little unsteady.

We collapse into window seats at &pizza, still shivering but staring and smiling, ravenous from the long trip.

Backpack dropped onto the foor of my room, coats thrown aimlessly. You kiss me again, but diferent this time.

Feeling your warm heart pound against my chest, arms intertwined, I don’t know how to separate myself from you. And I don’t want to.

We spend the next three days doing nothing, with short intervals of something: Food, photos, meetings, maybes

But mostly we just live inside, reading Plato and Aristotle, watching soccer, watching each other.

Goofy, silly, tickle fghts and tackles Secret looks and sneaky surprises Teaching you how to dance

Watching almost a full season of the Ofce and feeling nothing but accomplished about it, nothing but happy with you.

And at the Sunday end, we don’t say goodbye. I won’t say goodbye

i watched you.

by Dania Kawar

I watched you Touch me

Kiss my skin

As my insides quivered In fear of you

Your hands were places

Tey didn't belong

Trespassing on what is Mine

No place for dirty fngers

In my caves

No place for snake lips

On my hills

Now my sacred island is forever

Littered With You

by Mayeesha Galiba

How do you heal something that isn’t there anymore?

Of course I’m talking about my heart

Which has ached and cracked

Wilted and shattered

Bruised and bled

So many times that I laugh when it starts to fail

Pity masked with an eye roll

She’ll heal, she always does

But this time there are no cracks to fll in

No pieces to fnd their way back to each other

No black and blue to green and yellow to red and whole again

Instead my ribs have turned to jello

And my lungs

silence

How do I comfort my screaming veins?

Suddenly in the dark because they have lost what once connected them

Emptiness is not synonymous with numbness

Emptiness is the absence felt

How do I console the hysterical parts of my body?

Losing their mind

Where did she go?

Where is she?

What did you do to her?

Where did you take her?

Where is she now?

Did she feel any pain?

Did she leave this world in a burst of light?

Or was she sad and alone?

Did she get the requiem she deserved?

Or did the thing that made her disappear act quickly and quietly?

I cover my ears, hoping to block out the persistence of those that needed her

Silence at last

And then I hear my ear drum beat one more time

Where do we go from here?

where is she ?

ring of shame

by Gaby Walton

It was in the early hours of the morning Without even a hint of forewarning

As usual, I started my routine Ignorant of the hidden fend

I brushed my hair, washed my face Still unaware of the lingering disgrace

Walking barefoot as always In the room and hallways

All of a sudden I felt a squish Had I stepped on a cold fsh?

I lifted my foot, inspecting the intrusion Trying to make sense of my confusion

Don’t get me wrong I support protection

But insist upon disposal after ejection

I wish I could say that was my only contact But unfortunately I was repeatedly attacked

And over the next hour or so I stepped four times on the prevented embryo

Tough I detest the idea of extracting Someone else’s evidence of interacting

I refused to unwittingly again feel Te squish of this latex eel

Not with a bang but a boom I fnally threw it out of the room

And thus I ended my game With my roommate’s ring of shame

PICTURE IT

by Sophie Septof

I can picture it

She’s trapped

Trapped in a crushing, cramming closet

T r a p p e d

TRAPPED

Trapped with twelve other sobbing students and one teacher

I wish I would’ve said it

She needs to know

Know that I love her

Love her like a sister

Love her so much I would B R E A K D O W N a door, or a wall, or even a school with an active shooter for her

So much that I would pull a Freaky Friday switch with her if I could

But I cannot

I am not there

She is

I am free and she is captive

Her life is threatened and mine is safe

It’s pointless, pointed, painful

My mind bleeds with images of a sixteen year old girl in a closet

She is scared, frightened, confused

She is texting, calling, searching for answering

She is quiet, frozen, silent

She is unsure of her future

She is sure that everyone she knows will not have a future because of he was was allowed to take them away

I am angry at the shooter who threatens her

I am angry at every school shooter

I am angry at every shooter

I am angry at every person who would ever think it is okay to put the right to bear arms over her right to go to school unharmed

death and all her friends

by Olivia Jenkins

I don’t know why we can’t talk about death

I watched a TED talk about how to make death a more comfortable topic. Te speaker’s suggestion was that we plan for our deaths. Tell your loved ones what you want to happen when you die. Tat will make things easier.

Death will never be an easy subject. We want to live forever. Death interrupts our dreams, cuts in on our plans, chokes of the whispers of a future.

Death is not a comfortable topic. Have you ever had someone close to you die? It can take weeks, months, years to be able to utter their name without feeling the rush of emotions drowning you, encasing you in the memories and pangs of regret. I wish I- I should have- I wanted to-.

When I die, I want to be buried in the earth, not in a casket. I don’t want to spend any more time imprisoned by my own thoughts, my own fears. I want to feel the cold, wet soil on my lifeless skin. I want to stretch out my arms and legs as far as they can go. I want to connect my fngertips to the root of a big, tall oak tree. I want my toes to connect to a vibrant river. I want to feel alive even when I am not. I want to be remembered, knowing that my existence was not just a blip on the spectrum. I want to be remembered. I want to remember. Remember.

“Whether you succeed or not is irrelevant, there is no such thing. Making your unknown known is the important thing––and keeping the unknown always beyond you.”

–Georgia O’Keeffe

Dissipate artwork by Michelle Zhu