F WORD VOL. V

vol v // March 2016 content warning: see table of contents

WELCOME TO Welcome to VOLUME V of F WORD, a feminist collective based in Montréal, QC. Through our publication, we aim to provide a platform for the marginalized feminist voices that are underrepresented in our community.

Our notion of feminism is not limited to gender politics, but rather extends to all anti-oppressive perspectives. With this intersectional framework in mind, we aim to separate ourselves from feminisms that refute such values. We want our content to reflect these goals and to be a space where people feel safe sharing their experiences. As well as being a platform for our contributors, we hope F WORD will evolve as a community resource in Montréal and stand as a meeting place of feminists.

We are currently working to partner with other groups and organizations that share our anti-oppressive values and interests. If you or a group you are involved in would like to collaborate with F WORD, please e-mail us.

As always, we have the greatest appreciation for all of the support that we receive from our contributors, allies, and readers.

Lots of love from the collective!

F WORD seeks to explore feminism in its present-day cultural context as a unifying, anti-oppressive, intersectional force. We seek to provide an accessible community resource through inclusive, constructive multi-media content. Through our collective’s non-hierarchical structure, we aim to challenge and move away from existing systems of oppression.

EXPLORE: fwordmtl.com COnnect: facebook.com/fwordmtl FOLLOW: fwordmtl.tumblr.com tweet: twitter.com/fwordmtl CONTACT: fwordpublication@gmail.com SUBMIT: fwordmtl.com/submit

Content warning: As a feminist publication, some of the content in this zine discusses traumatic experiences. Please read the table of contents and the accompanying content warnings carefully.

F Word acknowledges that Montreal/ McGill is on traditional Haudenosaunne or Kanien’kehá:ka land

BIENVENUE à Nous avons le plaisir de vous présenter la cinquième publication de F word, un collectif fondé à Montréal. À travers nos publications, nous nous sommes donné pour mandat de fournir une plateforme aux féministes marginalisé(e) s qui sont sous-représenté(e)s dans notre communauté. Notre vision du féminisme ne se limite pas à l’aspect politique, mais s’étend plutôt à toutes les perspectives anti-oppressives. Dans ce cadre multidimensionnel, nous visons à nous dissocier des féminismes qui rejettent de telles valeurs. Nous voulons que le contenu de nos publications reflète ces objectifs et assure un espace accueillant où toute personne puisse se sentir à l’aise de partager ses expériences. En plus d’être une plateforme pour nos contributeurs et contributrices, nous espérons que F WORD évoluera en tant que communauté ressource à Montréal et pourra servir de lieu de rencontre pour les féministes.

Nous tentons présentement de nous associer avec d’autres groupes ou organisations qui partagent nos valeurs et intérêts anti-oppressifs. Si vous ou un groupe dont vous faite partie souhaite collaborer avec F WORD, n’hésitez pas a nous contacter par e-mail.

Comme toujours, nous apprécions énormément tout le soutien que nous recevons de nos contributeurs et contributrices, allié(e)s et lecteurs et lectrices.

Nous vous envoyons plein d’amour de la part du collectif!

F WORD cherche à explorer le Féminisme dans son contexte culturel actuel, en tant que force intersectionnelle, anti-oppressive, et unifiante. Nous voulons créer une ressource communautaire accessible grâce à un contenu multimédia inclusif et constructif. Grâce à une structure non hiérarchisée au sein de notre collectif, nous désirons nous distancer des systèmes d’oppression existants.

EXPLOREr: fwordmtl.com COnnecter: facebook.com/fwordmtl nous suivre: fwordmtl.tumblr.com tweet: twitter.com/fwordmtl nous joindre: fwordpublication@gmail.com Soumettre: fwordmtl.com/submit

Avertissement sur le contenu: En tant que publication féministe, certains éléments dans le contenu de ce magazine font référence à des évènements traumatisants. Veuillez lire la table des matières et les avertissements attentivement.

F WORD reconnaît que Montreal/McGill fait partie du territoire traditionel Haudenosaunne ou Kanien'kehá:ka.

Table of Contents Urgh by Edna Wan......................................................................................... 1 I Cut My Hair in Chicago by Briana Naseer......................................................2 Explorers by Jessica Goldson (CW: violence)................................................... 3 Babosa by Frida Clark.................................................................................... 4 Beautiful Boy by Hannah Moore......................................................................5-6 Drawing Lines by Laurel Foster + Natalie Liconti.............................................7-9 small grievances by Isabelle Stephen (CW: sexual assault, eating disorder, sex work, religious figures)...........................10 Babcia by Hannah Karpinski...........................................................................11 A Koran and a Bottle of Coconut Oil by Briana Naseer.................................... 12 Hotline Bling by Daniya Sayed........................................................................13-14 Entreaty of a Gilded Girl by Briana Naseer......................................................15 Lovers Enter The Abyss by Chloe Rowan Frozen Honey by Olivia Bradberry................................................................... 16 poem for the boy who told me he could make me see colours with his dick

by Isabelle Stephen (CW: sexual assault)..........................................................17 Déformations by Frédérike Filion.................................................................... 18 Conditional by Kirsten Wesselow (CW: anxiety disorder)....................................19 ! by Megan Kamps......................................................................................... 20 She and I Are Different Somehow by Kenza Vandenbroeck.............................. 21-22 What I Mean When I Tell My Father “I love you” by Briana Naseer Imitation by Claire Rose................................................................................. 23 excerpts by Anonymous (CW: sexual assault)....................................................24 Zenith Chaser by Batu Kaya (CW: gender dysphoria).........................................25 Caught In The Sunlight Through Her Bedroom Window by Chloe Rowan Fruit and Flesh by Maddie Gnam.................................................................... 26 She Bright by Iris Esquivel............................................................................. 27 Front cover by Leah Meyers Back cover by Florence Cloix

ARTIST BIOS Olivia Bradberry grew up in Philadelphia, and is currently studying Environmental Science at McGill. In her spare time she enjoys potting plants, roasting Brussels sprouts, and writing saccharine queer love poems.

Frida Clark is a Mexican-American writer and artist currently living in Boston, MA. Iris Esquivel is a Montréal-based visual artist and teacher and writer and big-dreamin’ feminist. She is currently in U3 at McGill University in Elementary Education and hopes to one day cause a positive ripple effect in the world. Or become Beyoncé. Chex her out @ irisesquivel.com.

Frédérike Filion Je suis étudiante à l’UQAM en histoire de l’art et souhaite me spécialiser dans l’art féministe. Je vous invite également à aller voir mon site web et mon facebook: frederikefilionartiste.weebly.com + facebook. com/frederike.filion.artiste.

Maddie Gnam is a gal studying Psychology and Women’s Studies at McGill whose greatest accomplishment thus far in life has been her purchase of $240 jeans for $4.50.

Jessica Goldson Let it be known that I was pierced by a man named Tinker.

Hannah Karpinski is a second-year student in Concordia’s Honours in English and Creative Writing program, as well as Head Writer of Yiara Magazine. She hails from Toronto and badly misses her dog. Hannah identifies as a queer feminist writer and artist, and in her work she likes to explore themes such as relationships between women, public and private spaces, and the body.

Natalie Liconti is from Toronto and is in her third year at McGill University. She studies Drama/Theatre Studies and Political Science. She enjoys weeping to Amy Winehouse, perfectly ripe bananas (just a few freckles), and dad jokes. You can check out her photography at natalieliconti.com. You can also send her fan mail of your best dad jokes!

Hannah Moore is a U1 Cultural Studies student. She draws her feminist power from the

journal section of Indigo and small americanos from Second Cup. When Hannah isn’t singing the Jersey Boys soundtrack alone in her room or dancing when she thinks no one can see her she writes for The Tab McGill and maintains her blog: anamericaninmtl. blogspot.com. Hannah resides in Montréal, Quebec with her plant Fitzpatrick and dreams of someday writing something you put on your shelf to look smart.

Briana Naseer is a Pakistani-American poet living in Chicago, Illinois. She is originally from Lakeland, Florida, and graduated with a bachelor’s degree in psychology from the University of South Florida. She is currently pursuing a graduate degree in school psychology. She has a cat named Boo. Claire Rose likes cats.

Chloe Rowan I am an Art History student in my third year at McGill. I am a street artist, illustrator, and printmaker as well. A lot of my work revolves around female subjects and each of their unique power as a woman.

Isabelle Stephen is a 1st Yr feminist at McGill. She likes crass poetry & pink drinks, although not necessarily in that order.

Kenza Vandenbroeck In my poetry, I attempt to capture what it means to be a woman and what it means to find your place in the world. My inspiration and my sense of belonging stems from the connection that I feel with Nature. I see the cycles and patterns of the world reflected in my own behaviour and growth and it reminds that I belong to something greater than myself, something very beautiful. Feminism, to me, is about finding the strength and beauty within ourselves and living for those moments where connection feels endless and meaningful. It is about striving to do what is right, to perpetuate positivity while appreciating and loving the things that are already faultless.

Edna Wan is a 19 year old English literature student who is convinced that Goodreads is the new Facebook, and the one true platform to pave the way for literature to prevail!

URGH by

I Cut My Hair in Chicago I cut my hair in Chicago

and the feel of the metal,

of the scissors cutting away

my strands of dead skin cells in their schoolgirl braid, was more potent than any other sensory input I’ve felt in my life; I did not lose my hair.

I lost a noose around my neck

when I walked to the hair salon without telling anyone when I didn’t back down

from my face in the mirror fearful of my father

appearing like a ghost

at the sound of scissors; without laying out my body like a permission slip at the mercy of a man who has dedicated his life to hurt ing me; For the first time, I claimed my self, as mine.

Briana Naseer

Explorers I want to be an anti-colonial explorer of your body.

I will leave as much good in you as when I found you.

I will not reap and reap until you are dry and struggling to bear fruit.

I want to be an anti-colonial explorer of your body.

I will not eliminate your language and replace it with my own.

We will create our own language, and speak it softly.

I want to be an anti-colonial explorer of your body.

You will be who I worship.

I will not squash your faith until your last remaining belief is in your own worthlessness.

I want to be an anti-colonial explorer of your body.

I will adorn you with comfort and warmth and softness.

I will not strip you and tear you and leave you writhing for sandpapery bandaging.

I want to be an anti-colonial explorer of your body.

I will help you connect with your community.

I will not hold you until you can no longer distinguish between a lover and a captor.

I want to be an anti-colonial explorer of your body.

Because you do not need me to invade you to become who you are.

Babosa

Beautiful Boy I was confident in the strings you wrapped around my chest All gossamer and silky Jellyfish legs They settled around me, you pulled, I ached It must have been quite a sight when I stood in front of you My stomach would fall and crawl to you My throat jumped ship My heart was a lost cause The passerbys saw a young girl, a little flushed But they didn’t look closely enough I wasn’t flushed, I was fire It seemed I was only skin holding together those physical bits that belonged to him I did not own my own being I rejoiced in the potential to be quietly remembered for quietly loving.

I could have defined my entire life around that beautiful boy.

Loving him could have been my 9-5 and my overtime. mind.

But there was a pinprick in the back of my

It filled itself with anxiety at the prospect of spending a lifetime watching his quick eyes make quick guesses. They would see things that I couldn’t. Blinded as I was by his shadow.

That pinprick was nervous. Nervous that those tapping fingers would go from precious rhythms to Stop I’m trying to work. and I would say me too.

But I would have nothing to work on.

Loving him would have been the easy way out.

I could have let the only tragedies in my world be the scratchy, wet tears he sometimes inspired, pulling down the side of my face and pooling in my ears.

My worth could have been measured in the desire I felt under accidentally on purpose touches.

Internal worth dictated by an external force.

But that pinprick has grown. Fed on ideas of its own creation.

And it seems I will have to uncover my own something.

And I won’t find it in those familiar places so I will cast out, and create it for myself.

Whisked to far corners by my own breath. No longer stolen by thoughts of you. beautiful boy who might once have been the pinnacle of my days.

But something tells me that the air would have been too thin for me way up there on your perch.

I must keep my nose to the ground. Must make what mark I can on the surface of the world among the mere mortals.

So goodbye idea of my beautiful boy.

I will shout it for you.

So you can hear it.

All the way up on that pedestal I slaved to create for you.

Did you ever really want it?

I don’t know. I don’t think that’s the important part anymore.

I think I’m going to give myself a chance to amaze me.

I think I’m going to do it too.

DRA

N I W G L I NES

illustrations: Laurel Foster text/concept: Natalie Liconti

small grievances i i could hand you a chronological account of all of the times that my body has been taken out of context misconstrued reinterpreted to support somebody else’s thesis but if i went through the trouble to cite each of the yellow bruises pressed into my crevices the insides of my thighs the hollows of my hipbones the space between my ears and my shoulders i would be called a cliche and so instead i let you push my words back into my mouth with your sandpaper tongue and then swallow them down in the hope that someday you will at least appreciate the dramatic irony. ii picasso painted blue women over portraits of the artist as a young man and though their monochromatic eyes tell me to fuck off their malnourished cheekbones demand sympathy. pay your respects to the whores clutching babies made of violent purple nights wet cheeks dirty pillows; pay your respects to the girls who swapped their last real smiles so you could drape them in eyelet lace, repurposed curtains from the bedroom window; pay your respects to the women who’ll never love you back. iii by the time i learned that i could have said no i’d said nothing ten times over and i was covered in scars, scars on my knees from the cement floor of the laundry room my cheeks from the creases of the cases of the pillows he held over my face just in case my palms from the perfect points of my own fingernails but nobody could see them except for me. i wish i could glow in the dark. iv for example i am surrounded by women who say all of the right things however there is a silent civil war roaring in my ears and i cannot hear them over the shrieks and the gunshots and the heavy beats of the reggeton i listen to as i watch my feet take me nowhere on a treadmill. i make a fortress for myself under my covers because everyday that i wake up i am fighting, slow burn, and i sit on my white flag like i sit on my hands and i wait for the day that that i will wake up and surrender and love myself the way that i tell other girls that their bodies are beautiful. v honest to god, mary full of grace, i am not sure what i would do with a daughter.

Isabelle Stephen

Babcia

A Koran and a Bottle of Coconut Oil I was most definitely born with it: the chai-stained skin, hair and eyes darker than the leaves that brewed it.

I looked the part from day one.

Except for the whiteness in me; the eyebrows too sparse at their beginning, the nose that refused to be obtuse, the lips too shy to stake a bigger claim on my brown face.

I still think they were the whisperers who gave me away, even though my arms are darker than even some of my full-blooded cousins’.

My shy features couldn’t stand up for me when people told me I wasn’t really either/or, that I had no rightful claim to any sort of cultural space, when they adopted funny names for me; the living half-breed and mudblood; not half elf or witch (I wish), but a little too light for this, a little too dark for that.

They had to steal from fantasies to come up with a word for me, the brown girl who spent the entirety of prayer clinging to her white mother’s side because she didn’t know a word of Arabic.

I wasn’t white, but I was told “you’re only half, and you can’t be half” to be real.

So I started my own cultural revolution, stole into the neighborhood desi markets and stocked up on incense, learned exactly what “jaan” means and how to properly eat a samosa; I call myself Pakistani when it gets lost in other people’s words, smeared somewhere in “mixed,” the blanket term used to stifle my half-and-half heritage, to muddy the waters of any source of solid identity.

This is still a process, holding hands with a side I have so often pushed away out of fear, of not knowing; I have been too afraid to stake a flag in it and call it mine.

But I am learning.

Briana Naseer

HOTLINE BLING

Daniya Sayed

Entreaty of a Gilded Girl

I know I can never be the moon for you; so instead

I will turn my wrists over to you,

offer up the glow

of my golden forearms, the sparkling topaz

of my brilliant skin cells complementing your eyes, drawing them to me,

a magnetism more powerful than lunar tides.

I will bathe you in pools of light, your bare body drenched in my ochre waves.

I will make you shine,

I will make you bright,

I will make you a halo of white.

My lips will burn yours; you will never leave me.

Briana Naseer

Lovers Enter the Abyss Frozen Honey Her kissing lips tell me it’s in the texture Syrup drizzles down my neck in her opiate whisper Undone on buttermilk sheets She’s exfoliated from her lips to her walls I’m drugged and raw when she vibrates off me I bloom and her poppy breath hums that my lips taste like flower Coagulated blood runs like frozen honey from organ to cavernous organ until my heart stops and I am bursting with sweetness Her love is thick, deliberate, my love is flowing between the synapse of our bodies, dopamine bouncing off pale walls We caramelize in its heat We spend hours sliding out of bed

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

poem for the boy who told me he could make me see colours with his dick

once when i was awake he put a pillow over my face i screamed a rip in my lungs so now there are plush things that spill out of my cracks and when you collapse on top of me the points of your elbows push the feathers back inside i am stuffed full of the early two-thousands thank you fuck you fuck me fuck me and tell me it again

there are blueberries scattered on the floor and mashed up at the bottom of a glass

raw raw raw raw raw raw raw raw raw

in the place where we watched the collapse of the last chinese dynasty you put my hand on your face pushed your nose between my fingers the yellow paint was peeling off of the walls and you told me i looked beautiful out of the corner of your eye

i will be good for you i will be good for her i will be good for me i will be good i will be i will i

raw raw ra

unfiltered love is not vibrant it is buried under oily pastels, uncertainty at the point of no return i am trying to find the place where you stop and i begin everything is the same your love is muted, malleable dustbowl dirty fuck me fuck me and tell me it again Isabelle Stephen

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

DĂŠformations

Arêtes No Mas End it all.

o forget the funny feeling in my throat

Conditional Melt my heart

What language must I Speak for it to listen To my pleas?

Slowly turn up the heat Melt my heart Or does it only bother Slowly turn up the heat To listen Burn it ‘til its ash o stay completely still When it hears the Until it feels no more.shakeshakeshake Burn it ‘til it’s ash Until it stops poundingpoundingpounding Until it feels no more.

Melt my heart Until it stops poundingpoundingpounding Of…...Aturn up the heat Slowly Little Arêtes Arrête White Burn it ‘til its ash No Mas No Más Bottle Until it wait for my heart to listen… it all. feels no more.

End it all. End Until it stops poundingpoundingBut no What language mustpounding I course not What language must I Of Speak for it to listen That cannot be true.

Speak for it to listen Arêtes To my pleas?

To my pleas?

No Mas Apparently if I speak toall. it in

End it Or does it only bother p the heat Or does it only bother Yoga&Baking&Classical MuTo listen To listen sic, must I When it hears the What language ash When it hears the Then itlisten will listen.

Speak for it to shakeshakeshake o more. shakeshakeshake To my pleas?

poundingpoundingpounding

And so I listen to a Mozart symphony Of…...A Of…...A in pianissimo Or does it only(neverforte) bother Little Little While baking ginger snaps To listen White as White In downwards facing dog When it hears the Bottle End it all.

Bottle shakeshakeshake

And

But no e must I But no I try to forget the funny feeling in my Of…...A Of course not o listen Of course not throat Little That cannot be true.

That cannot be true.

White And Bottle y bother Apparently if I speak to it in

Yoga&Baking&Classical Music, I try no to stay completely still But the Then it will listen.

Of course not hake And cannot be true.

That And so I listen to a Mozart symphony in pianissimo (neverforte) While baking ginger snaps silent Apparently if I speak to it in In downwards facing dog Yoga&Baking&Classical MuAnd I wait for my heart to listen… sic, And Then it will listen.

I try to forget the funny feeling in my throat And so I listen to a Mozart symphony in pianissimo (neverforte) e true.

And While baking ginger snaps In downwards facing dog speak to itI try in to stay completely still Bio: &Baking&Classical Music, And On a night when I was actively trying to prevent myself from having an it will listen.

And

this piece to try to encapsulate all the annoying shit that comes with de

I trytoto feeling in my physical symptoms theforget reactionsthe facedfunny when you tell people you hav n to a Mozart symphony in pianissimo (neverforte) silent anxiety as whatthroat it really is: an actual, complex, pain-in-the-ass mental d ginger snaps throw out when you feel a little nervous. s facing dog And I wait for my heart to listen…

And

the funny feeling in my throat

!

F Word Signature

By

She and I are different somehow As the wind blew past to distant truths, Locks of her hair lifted and tangled Like branches and leaves; Twisting like falling seeds to plant their roots.

And I am reminded of a time that we lay down beneath the trees And heard them whispering our names.

We were told of the secrets of the seas, Distilled into cloud-shapes and Mimicking the blooms on which we lay.

Sometimes, in the presence of great beauty, She feels the surface of her skin begin to tingle And the wind passes through her body Like it passes over water and causes it to ripple.

She, now only a mirage, will feel the dissolution of all past illusions And This Is how it feels to be moonstruck.

I will remember your name because you remind me of the Moon’s sighing wanes And in your pupils I see the city’s million lights.

Although they may have led some birds astray, They twinkle like morning sunlight in the dewdrops and They whisk the clouds away.

In the heart of the Earth, surrounded by mineral by-product, A vibration begins to shake the stalagmites.

As it echoes through the hollows it begins to pick up both pace and pitch And reverberates a tune that only the stars can sing.

From her vocal chords a humming escapes And breaks the silence of the world.

The surrounding blades of grass begin to sway and Dance the tidal dance That only windswept wheat-grass seems to know.

I thrive on my awareness of trees and I strive for their awareness of me.

I bear witness to my own transformations And watch myself capitulate to evolution.

Like cyclical moon cycles And Sun-Earth revolutions, I come and go with tidal sea patterns And sigh like the weeping willows do.

When the indigo skies part their clouds, She hears distant galaxies call her name And Here, wrapped in Gaea’s warmth, She knows that she could never be alone.

And Here, strung out like a constellation across astral planes, She knows that she will always be remembered, And This Is what it means to be enamored.

Imitation by Claire Rose

What I Mean When I Tell My Father “I love you�

My heart has been bruised so often by you that it forgot how to be tough, stubborn like dried meat against teeth, fighting back bones.

Now it is a peach in November.

Its eternal wielding skin will always bleed at the first tendril of smoke curling out of the gun of your mouth, the first second it falls on my ears; it will always give way.

This is not a softness I chose.

-Briana Naseer

excerpts from a journal of wayward & wandering thoughts du corps par le corps avec le corps depuis le corps et jusqu’au corps

— antonin artaud when your father’s lips touch those of your best friend without her consent and when the doctors say it’s a side effect of his medication do you call bullshit or do you believe when they and your mother speak silence and forgetting is there a place for your guilt and anger and pain in the beginning i liked the bell jar because she was kind of like me by the end i hated it because she was still kind of like me *** love never yet felt is abstract the empty space in your hand and on the other pillow then she filled what before was just a silhouette unasked question no. 7 — do you know what it is to feel unnecessary to me you are necessary am i

who am i the good nights, the how are yous, the we’ll talk soons things are okay le monde tourne fort - Anonymous

ZENITH CHASER

I coil sand pearls around my neck, And look up through the mustard of my eyes.

I am a zenith chaser, my gaze is fixed on and upon the lines converging above.

Below, the ground, the Earth, the soil, Below, in betweewn the slush and the gravel are the lines that never meet.

They are the paralleled boundaries of categorization, and I am a zenith chaser.

The ground can only hold my feet while I gloriously focus my eyes on the sky, on the open.

The brassy biology of mine, of my flesh and meat manifests itself in crude and unforgiving forms.

My mind fails to control the dysphoria.

And the need, My need to avert my eyes, away from the inside, from the ground I am rooted always gets to me.

My need gets to me, So I look up.

Below my sand pearls are the places I do not really care about, The sciences of the limbs, and the wet, damp needs belong to the Earth.

I have the heavens through my gaze, I have the possibility, and the vastness.

I am a zenith chaser, and I cherish the in between.

My vision is the story of the games I play, My vision is the story of my name.

And it is the muffled, rusty, tired, sometimes piercing, longing, bloodshot, tacit, focused, delicate, and beautiful eyes of mine that give me my vision.

I am a zenith chaser, and I am color in between.

Batu Kaya

Fruit and Flesh

I can see her brain: gears whirring and shifting endlessly her vowels lick my ear canals, lubricate my parched brain, a balm of midnight blackberries and fresh mint almost tangible, almost edible sweeter than poison and I suck it to its last drop as pupils cloud and lips are cloven she picks the tender plum of skin surrounding her fingernail and the taste of fruit fills my nostrils a cloying river slithering down my throat like a diamond serpent rich and thick she moves her lips and I see cherries red as freshly dewing blood and I think how lovely a shade they could stain mine

Caught In The Sunlight Through Her Bedroom Window

She Bright

ARTIST STATEMENTS Beautiful Boy by Hannah Moore I think it is really easy to get trapped in the habit of intense liking to a point that we make irrational sacrifices and begin to devalue our potential as individuals. I am a hopeless romantic to the nth degree, but in this piece am hoping to channel my wealth of emotion into something more rewarding than pining over unrequited love.

Drawing Lines by Laurel Foster (illustrations) + Natalie Liconti (text and concept) This is a graphic poetic essay about the lines between yes and no. Both artists are feminists, however struggle in their day-to-day lives regarding the “right” ways to uphold traditional feminist values. This work examines the subtleties of their experiences of rape culture and patriarchal oppression. It is an honest, contradictory, and ambiguous reflection of these circumstances.

Babcia by Hannah Karpinski Babcia is the Polish word for “grandmother.” This diptych is a tribute to my own grandmother, as it captures the way afternoon light plays across her bedroom in Toronto, where she lives for half of the year when she is not living in Poland. She is present in the second photo, reading the book that lies splayed on her bed in the first image. A favourite theme of mine in my writing as well as in my art is intergenerational relationships between women. I am grateful to have grown up with my grandmother, who raised me to be creative, independent, and unapologetic. I wanted to capture her where she is most comfortable: in her bedroom, a self-constructed and

intimate space that is entirely hers.

Hotline Bling by Daniya Sayed I wanted to emphasize the “Hotline Bling” pink in this specific shoot.

Since my friends and I usually stick to black and more black, we thought it would be nice to throw in some color.

We all love Drake and thought going for a pastel look would be interesting and a small change from our usual shoots. My main focus is mostly natural light portraits that emphasize the hijab, a veil worn by many Muslim women worldwide. I began taking pictures when I started receiving numerous anonymous messages on Tumblr from other young Muslim women who wanted to know how they could be more confident in their covering and if I had any tips for them. That’s when it hit me that not a lot of hijabis have such a huge squad of other hijabis to support them, nonetheless stay by their side during this difficult religious journey. Choosing to wear the hijab is a hard and difficult journey that I wouldn’t even want to imagine going through alone. You can say that I am really grateful for having this big supportive amazing group of young women who I am extremely proud to call my best friends. My goal is to support and inspire hijabis who are struggling to stay confident in their veil. My squad and I do this for you.

Be bold in your hijab and be fearless.

We got your back. Portfolio: sayedaniya.tumblr.com Lovers Enter The Abyss by Chloe Rowan 2016 - watercolour, ink, marker, paint marker, Photoshop Society likes to pretend that it is pro-

ARTIST STATEMENTS gressive. But, the second a same-sex couple displays affection for one another, there are countless glares and stares from people either judging, or celebrating this union. To actually enjoy the moment, it is necessary for the couple to block out all surroundings, entering into an abyss of love and lust. Soon the whole outside world disappears, and it’s just you two. No fucks given.

Déformations by Frédérike Filion Je tenais à faire quelque chose qui venait me secouer du fond du cœur jusque dans ma tête. Ça donné ça: Trois toiles contre la révolte des stéréotypes de beauté en m’inspirant de ce que je ne suis pas et en rejetant ce concept injuste et inatteignable pour nous, jeunes femmes de la planète terre.

Conditional by Kirsten Wesselow On a night when I was actively trying to prevent myself from having an unwelcome panic attack, I wrote this piece to try to encapsulate all the annoying shit that comes with dealing with anxiety. From the physical symptoms to the reactions when you tell people you have it, I attempted to portray anxiety as what it really is: an actual, complex, pain-in-the-ass mental disorder and not just a word to throw out when you feel a little nervous.

Imitation by Claire Rose This is a reproduction of an old photograph of my mom (right) and her mom (left) in acrylic paint. The prompt for this piece was “love” and I felt that the imitated positions of the subjects represent the natural love and admiration between mother and

daughter. The piece is monochromatic in purple because I associate the color purple with mothers.

Zenith Chaser by Batu Kaya Zenith Chaser is one of the many forms of reaffirming an existence that refuses to be standardized, and reduced to dichotomies. Its misty tone and ever expanding broad scenery, I hope, accentuate the silver linings, and power of self-declaration, multidimensionality, and richness of our identities in a realm that is so fond of etiquettes.

Caught In The Sunlight Through Her Bedroom Window by Chloe Rowan 2016 - watercolour, ink, photoshop, correction pen One cold, but sunny day, I didn’t want to go outside. The light was coming into my bedroom in a way that prompted me to get out my tripod, my camera, and my naked self. This fun little photoshoot, along with my obsession for an active female gaze, produced this illustration. As a woman studying art history, I am sick of seeing passive female nudes depicted by voyeuristic male artists. This illustration attempts to subvert this trend by returning her voyeur’s gaze.

Subvert the Male Gaze by Florence Cloix “...She paints herself.

The model becomes the artist.

She creates herself.

She is not there to please you.

She pleases herself.

The question is not ‘Who is she,’ but ‘Who are you?’”

– Marlene Dumas, ‘The Artist as a Painter’ 2007

F WORD COLLECTIVE Mariam Al-Shaeel Elise Ann Olivia Bradberry Dylan Brekka Florence Cloix Caroline Copeman Çağan Diken Gabrielle Dinger Marina Djurdjevic Emma Galarneau McKenna Glorioso Maddie Gnam Elizabeth Haig Emma Hignett Judy Huang Simone Isadora Jamie Kim

Sara Kloepfer Megan Koster Charlène Lawruk Tiffany Le Emily Levine Anna Ma Laura Mackey Moragh McDougall Ava Mohsenin Övgü Nurözler Casey Osborne Kara Sacks Smith Isabelle Stephen Hannah Taylor Jules Tomi Kristen Wesselow Noah Witte-Winnett

special thanks to our sponsors and allies