Flawless Mag: The Soft Issue

flawless writes editors

Valentine Carr Ana Pineda-Gonzalez Christina Horacio layout by flawless writes Kiersten Tate Isabella Chiu Valentine Carr Ana Pineda-Gonzalez Christina Horacio

flawless

board

brown executive

president - Brianna Jackman chair of flawless pictures - Worlanyo Mensah chair of flawless sisterhood - jay ayesha chair of flawed comedy - Hawa Kamara chairs of flawless writes - Valentine Carr, co-chair; Ana Pineda-Gonzalez, co-chair; Christina Horacio, associate chair

Letter from the Co-Editor

When I first thought of the soft issue, I didn’t anticipate the creative lengths people went to for this issue. Such incredible work is featured, and it makes me so happy that you all get to read and see these pieces.

There is a tarot reading in the middle of the issue, and I believe that it is a guiding light for the future, for both the personal and collective. The Moon is an integral part to the reading, and is personally my favorite tarot card. It calls for the individual to trust themself and to trust that there is a way for things to go as they’re supposed to go. This is perfect for the soft issue, being that the world isn’t always going to let us be soft, but we have to trust ourselves and trust that there is a way for us to create these spaces for ourselves. This is especially true as people of color.

Nothing could make me more proud than to see this issue be my last issue with Flawless as I graduate in December. It’s been a wonderful time to meet and get to know everyone who has come in and out of Flawless these past two years, and I have had such an enriching time being part of it all. Thank you so much for having me, and I hope that you all enjoy this issue as much as I have.

Love, Valentine (they/them)

Letter from the Co-Editor

Hello everyone!!

My name is Ana Pineda-Gonzalez and I’m the Co-Chair for Flawless Writes this semester! I’m so happy to be a part of Flawless Writes because of the beautiful and diverse community. Having had some meaningful conversations with people in this organization has really made me become a better person where I’ve come to see the differences between our cultures, our lives, and what we strive for in our future. I’ve also had great laughs with the people in this organization that I’m truly happy to have met even if it’s for a short while. The community of Flawless has been so welcoming to me since I’ve arrived and as someone who is new to the magazine making industry, I’ve been very happy to be here and just learn. I hope you enjoy this issue and see you soon!

Sincerely, Ana Pineda-Gonzalez (she/her)

Letter from the Associate Editor

This was my first semester being not only a writer for Flawless Writes, but the assistant co-chair. Being involved in the making of the magazine has been such an invaluable experience. I am really appreciative that the writers trusted us to bring each piece to life. With our theme being the Soft Issue, it was especially gratifying to read the intimate, vulnerable words of our writers. I am beyond grateful that they have all allowed us into their minds and hearts.

I am hopeful that this issue could help others feel more comfortable in expressing vulnerability, love, heartbreak, grief, and whatever else is deemed ‘soft.’ What could be seen as a weakness, is a shining token of strength in this issue—which will ideally lead our readers to believe the same.

Sincerely, Christina Horacio (she/her)

heaven by the sea

By Charlotte Drummond

take me to your mountain flourish in your sea hang up all the daydreams that decorate your leaves wake up with your sunrise burrow within your earth listen to the sound of your ocean’s swelling stir

i know you don’t believe in heaven but you find it all the time in the breeze, the trees, the rocks that tip me over how do you see these things so clearly?

i swore we were close to the same but I have not seen heaven the way you look me in the face guide me through your meadow i’ll follow where you go bathe within your river and tell me how it flows like how you interrupt seasons to bring the rain have you touched the sky with your bare hands?

i’m no goddess from where you stand and will i, one day, be able to see beyond the gray?

i know you don’t believe in heaven, and hell is what you make it, but i have seen heaven the way you look at me desperately why do i see these things so clearly?

i swore we were always the same, but I have not seen heaven the way you do i’ll pick through every flower i’ll break in every trail i’ll shout up down from the clouds to say “one day i’ll see the air!” no falling from the fear of falling i’ll find my arrows high up in the trees where do they lead? i think i know where they lead and if I ever break your heart, I’d make Mother Nature bleed i’ve been warned by the tides and pushed by the wind how could I lift my face to the sun from this storm cloud that i’m in? and every time I break your heart, i make Mother Nature bleed these are things that i just can’t unsee i swore we walked the same pace, but i cannot see heaven again— no I will not see heaven the way you do

i want to feel your touch. but i don’t know who “your” is referring to.

Anaphora by J. Faith Malicdem (Housepouse)

There is a girl I wish I knew I saw her soak herself in strawberry afternoons The world beheld her comfort to those she couldn’t see So she shed her sweet exterior leaving me with me

One day I woke up wondering what to do With myself knowing this was no valley view I could hear her voice echo She said not to let go but to take all my fears with me she couldn’t see they’d never flee

One day I woke up wondering where my pulse went it palpitates now that i’m so hellbent like Darcy said to Lizzie: “your hands are cold” I touch the tips of mine whenever my pride folds

I can see the time pass by for each time I’ve cried my tale is theirs to reap but I couldn’t see

It was only temporary I carry so much I shove it down Til I’m all out of touch

One day she woke up and understood She’ll never see herself the way she thought she would

wishing these spaces are truly safe places, so i can just dissolve.

i’ve never had a dream so warm by Charlotte Drummond

frustration over losing light blurry faces from another time with burning smiles, absent eyes all drifting in my waking mind blue fading into orange sky slipping through the cracks, look how it slides before I knew it the sun was gone trickling into a shady pond

why wouldn’t i sigh? over moving pictures, misty-eyed

honeysuckle on a rosy highway dozing headlights on a concrete river a bridge solely for a friendly endeavor the kind of conversation that makes you shiver how high i fly at the idea of you floating by manifesting my realistic lover drops of golden making me stutter subconscious telling me to hover you know what they say, how the heart tends to flutter too many times i fall for the ones that pass me by ~ i don’t wanna mess this up again

i know it’s not real, but I know what my brain does killing me softly with a whisper of hope

no puddles that are ruining white shoes just two pairs of eyes never locked before no moonlight covered in overreaching branches no blanket of green ‘round a lonely strip of road

don’t think too hard about it all too fast breaking hearts, making ‘em cry all night long the liar wants to be loved, but alas i’ll only hurt a little when i feel i’m wrong

think of cozy breezes, tones of bold brass think of letting the dark calm you, relax ella and louis score the steady traffic think of feeling comfortable at last feeling natural with someone i’ve never met couldn’t stand the way you caught my eye scrolling through you on those lonely nights picture perfect on the other side dangling amidst all the fairy lights

strange enchanted boy upon the railing how can untouched love be so damn scary? don’t look down the mountain i’ve been scaling i’ve never had a dream so warm don’t wanna be woken weary don’t wanna bruise myself and bury all those memories behind but it’s time to see the day

Without the softness of life by Skylar Figaro without the softness of life there would be no sunshine no blooming of flowers flowing water or the togetherness of community without the softness of life harshness of weather would not leave us fertile soil the promise of the shining sun to brighten the dim and a chance to rebuild without the softness of life the moon and the stars would not dazzle us with gleams in the night sky they wouldn’t provide us comfort as we look above life wouldn’t provide us the knowing of the abundance of love

My Lonely by Lindsay Debrosse

I spent most of my adolescence wide-eyed, my right index finger resting nicely on the computer mouse ready to select the next YouTube video. As I clicked and wasted through the hours of the day, my sister mirrored my desperation for company, but she preferred the presence of bright colored cartoons. Five years apart in age doesn’t seem like too long, but when you’re 16 and your sister is 11, it feels like light years apart. We made up for the lack of understanding with bickering and playful remarks with the occasional violations of personal space that were necessary for healthy sisterly love.

I buried my ache for connection, for touch, for understanding with flash ing images on my family’s used Dell computer. It held all my secrets—and all my shame. The hard drive hid the searches of gay questions, “are you bisexual?” quizzes, and online mental illness tests. I spent my days scroll ing, swiping, anything to feed my insatiable desire for images of pretty girls with flat stomachs, wishing, praying I could look like them. My eyes devoured pools of pictures, and videos to occupy my mind. After scouring the wasteland of the Internet looking to escape, and entering every imaginable concoction of words to the Google search, I always came back to: “Why am I so lonely?”

I haven’t been able to articulate the sacrifices immigrant families make to create a life here. The things you learn to live without, the memories you tell no one, the missing out on familial traditions. The dining room has become a home to random homework assignments, unopened mail, and our tax returns. It leaves little room for a plate or a gathering. The sarifices linger in my perpetual longing for a place I already live in. My loneliness fills the corners of my home. It hides in my room, locking me in with my shame. I lay silently awaiting the jingling of my mother’s key in the door. I hear her unwind after a long day before getting ready for another one. I wonder, does she feel it too?

January 12, 2010, the Haitian earthquake tore through the heart of my country—and my family. In time, I learned my mom’s sister couldn’t have a funeral because they never found her body. My dad lost his best friend. There was no room to cry or mourn; the pressures of survival are crippling. My lonely is second hand. It belonged to my mother as she silently wavered through my father’s storm. She shoved her lonely in the palms of her hands and her faith carried us through every worry, every late rent payment, and empty fridges. My lonely belongs to both of us.

It grips to every laugh, every hug, every smile because I hope maybe one day it will feel like home. I learned to make a home out of my friend’s laughter, their blunted breath. I wonder if they smiled long enough, laughed long enough, loved me long enough that they would see my lonely. I wondered if they only saw the Black girl, the funny girl, the fat girl. I attempt to fill the gaps and color in the empty space with rapturous laughter, dirty jokes, and bad habits. A hardened shield around my most sacred secret, my longest friend. I search for a clue, an opening to release my captive, to let free my worst pain. My mouth opens, and the words leap out to silence. There is still so much space between us.

a tarot reading for the soft issue: now, more than ever, is the time for you to trust yourself and not get caught up in the illusions around you. let go of the things that do not serve you, and be open to the adventures that life brings you. although there is disharmony now, trust that you have the tools to pull yourself out of it, and don’t be afraid to ask for help. reach out when you need to, and let others reach out to you if they need to.

angel numbers and opaline

By Charlotte Drummond

waking up with familiar dread again this morning it’s seeped its way into my head, moving slow like honey crystals wrapped around my wrists, weighs soft like solidity they bring me right down to earth, heaven’s close to my body all these concrete things from soil to sky replace the unanswered what ifs and whys chasing monsters when they light up my room, catching sunlight for a premature tomb is that why everyone leaves so soon?

everything always brings the death of me, so i pray on angel numbers and opaline i keep falling for loving too strongly, so i follow the paths that are falling for me

eurydice knew her lover would turn she was disappointed but not surprised and mary magdalene gave her whole life to a man who would only go and die and the fall of eve led to misery even if she was a saint in my eyes i broke bones to build my own cathedral— make the heavens sigh with spaghetti straps and shiny eyes

oh angel numbers give me dopamine bring a piece of childhood back to me repainting all my rusted metal gold want so bad to keep it from growing old

my smoky quartz and i fell one early october over twenty years later i hate being sober now all of my ghosts keep taking me over when i swore I’d get them out of me

my jadeite and sandalwood are simple distraction my sweetest of temptations waiting for reaction it’s proof that i’m haunted hoping for satisfaction

i hold onto angel numbers and opaline like everything i love will be the death of me and i hate when good things happen to me because they’re gone before i can get them back

but you always said to keep the things that I’m drawn to, so if i should suffer, they’re with me ‘til they’re run through and if they should break it just means i don’t need them anymore so don’t walk on eggshells around me i’ve got my angel numbers and opaline

Becoming Soft

By Christina Horacio

I have always had a complicated relation ship with vulnerability. With showing my softer edges. Growing up with a Puerto Rican dad from the Bronx, I was encouraged to be tough. My grandparents didn’t speak of bouts of depression. Hustling was emphasized. “If you’re not first, you’re last,” my dad would say as encour agement when I used to race karts. My grandpa always warned against snitching, regardless of the circumstances. “The worst thing you can be is a rat.”

Because of that, I was a sensitive kid but learned quickly how to best conceal it. Crying was a weakness in an argument. And I always wanted to win. Consequently, I was characterized as a snappy, stubborn, ab surdly loud girl. All of which fall under the stereotype of “loud annoy ing Latina,” or “hot Cheeto girl.” I resented that; I didn’t want to fit the stereotype, but all those qualities had been so engraved in me as tokens of strength that I was adamantly opposed to pulling back in any sort of way.

Even as I am now in college, I still find it difficult to find a balance between being too cold and being what I think to be ‘too soft.’ Because of my nature, people noticeably find it peculiar when I am vulnerable. It’s that look on their face, or the awkwardness in the air, that makes me want to lean into my coldness even harder.

But it isn’t just that.

In my observations, I would repeatedly find that what would be perceived as bitchy coming out of my mouth, seemed to be more powerful and bold coming from a whiter, prettier one. I almost got the feeling that some of my peers didn’t think my appearance matched up with or justified my level of outspokenness. Specif ically men. And that always fuels my anger. My desire to morph into what they want me to be. I don’t regret making these men feel uncomfortable in any way, but I do regret the way my first instinct to attack made my friends feel.

However, through many heart to hearts over the years, I realized having my friends fearing to upset me isn’t a good thing. That sometimes compassionately listening is better than being viciously defensive. Because ultimately I knew my friends loved me, so there was no need to be defensive to begin with. Don’t get me wrong, all of them would still categorize me as blunt and stubborn, if you ask, but in a way less problematic sense than before.

Beyond that, finding this community of people who didn’t hold me to stereotypes or treat my rare instances of vulnerability as strange helped me become softer. Or rather, embrace the fact that I can still be strong when I am openly hurting. Because becoming soft means to show that you give a fuck; and I’d say that takes a hell of a lot of courage.

a song in the key of eb minor by valentine (yes, i briefly quote cats) story ebm touch me, it’s so easy to ab leave me so i’m surprised ebm i’ve stayed ebm touch me feel me with ab your hands crying out, i say ebm my name ebm touch me ab put out the pyre i’m not dead ebm yet ebm breathe me ab into you i hope you’ll ebm understand that

bb7 this isn’t a superhero story ab there’s no villain ebm either bb7 this isn’t a ab love story ebm i’m no lover ebm we’re young ab for now we can take ebm what we want ebm in the dark ab from in each other i didn’t think your light ebm would be so blinding

ebm touch me it’s so easy ab to leave me so i’m surprised ebm you’ve stayed ebm touch me it’s so easy ab to leave me so i’m surprised ebm i’ve stayed

bb7 this isn’t a ab true story but no lies ebm have been said bb7 this is a ab love story but i’m still ebm no lover

if I were a talented lover, i would take full advantage of my parents going out if I were a talented lover i would scream to the heavens of the love i had found

every sunrise would fill with the music of your sound, and i would take your hand and squeeze on without worry no fear of falling anywhere but in love all this falling to pieces would be worth it in the end

if i were a talented lover, i’d get all excited as the sun went down the closed door would finally hold truth in its secrets, and your mother’s suspicions ensured

but i can’t bare your arms around me at night no stars found within the darkness of my mind i would leave it, leave it, leave it all behind this unspoken situation rolled up in our tides

if i were a talented lover, every kiss would only begin with another no breaking the silence with ulterior motives if I had those talents, i’d just let you in but i’m still trying to get over my head— the way that it pounds when your skin is getting warm, and I’m burning because of the weight of your words, and if i were who i wish i was, I’d be begging on my knees please, i don’t deserve your feeling

and if I had talents you keep on expressing, we’d have the same stories that all our friends have, and you would be reeling in feelings of summer, and i would be left in the cold— And i wouldn’t worry at all if i were a talented lover i would take full advantage of you

talented lover by Charlotte Drummond

Not in your Beheldment by Skylar Figaro

It’s amusing how you try to shape me hard and callous but my soft tummy still peaks through straight and lean and yet my rolls lie delicately curls and coils, let that be the death of you and not of me you tried to obstruct me in a vision that is tainted and unwarranted

i am not who you paint me to be i don’t fit the mold you try to put me in the heaviness that you feel isn’t from me or the weight of my body, but the weight you put on yourself to care so much on what i do not

I am a bold figure with soft edges I don’t want your projection I don’t want your beheldment as my beauty doesn’t fit your eye

I want to exsist for only myself To dive heart first into self love and self expression To know a peace I’ve found only within me

What inspired you to make the zine?

I love to draw outfits of people I see in cafes. I was inspired by fruits magazine :)

Tea Time by Abby

Meacham

Earl Grey Tea: Caffeinated, brewed with boiling water and steeped for 1-2 minutes. Meant to invigorate, good for blood pressure and stomach health. Combined with flavors like bergamot, rose, and vanilla. Best with fresh squeezed orange juice, or milk and sugar. Boston is a good place for black girls who know the city. It’s rough around the edges just like any other busy area, but in a way it’s easier. It feels like a level in a video game that I’ve already played, the kind you go back to just to beat your high score. When I walk down the street, I’m able to go slow enough to take small sips of my tea, though occasionally I jolt too intensely and burn my tongue. Neither of the places I claim as my home are like this. In Connecticut, everyone moves slowly enough to notice at least one of your flaws. In New York City, everyone moves so fast that they don’t notice you at all, lost in the blur of their own lives. I’m not like my mother, who can walk through cities like an arrow through water. She moves at her own pace regardless of where she is, forcing people to meet her halfway or move around her. I’ve never been the kind of woman who makes tranquility look like rebellion, but here, I sit down on a bench outside the library and drink my tea thoughtful ly. I relax and enjoy the fall weather, in a city where I can take my time.

Ginger Tea: Often decaffeinated, brewed with boiling water and steeped for 3-5 minutes. Meant to relax, soothe an upset stomach, or bring warmth to the body. Combined with flavors such as chamomile, lemon, or maple. Best with honey.

December makes the air crisp and cool, and my skin feels brittle when I walk outside. Here, it doesn’t snow until you’re ready for spring, as if the weather warps itself around Boston out of spite. The trees are bare, branches outstretched to catch the sleet, and the roads are slippery to cars and pedestrians alike. My hair is in crimson box braids for the holidays, and I’ve officially started using my winter concealer shade. It’s also flu season, and my mom’s side of the family is nothing if not predictable, so I enter my dorm room with a package of Lifesaver mints and crystalized ginger tea. That night, I walk around the Boston Common with a portable mug warming my fingers. My grandmother always tells me not to walk around cities at night, delivering warnings about the kind of people who hide in the shadows. And it’s not that I don’t trust her—to say that would be a rejection of the women in Queens who taught her what she knows, and the women who taught them. But some thing about winter makes the night feel safe, and I know that even if it isn’t, I’m carrying my grandmother’s protection with me, the spicy sweetness chasing away the cold and whatever else awaits in the dark.

Green Tea: Often caffeinated, brewed with less than boiling water and steeped for any where between 2-10 minutes. Good for anti-aging and reducing oxidative stress, usually combined with flavors like jasmine or orange blossom. Best with honey.

There are plenty of green teas available in the Dining Hall, but the one I’m drinking as I study for spring finals is from one of my aunties. She’s technically my great-aunt because of generational rules— my great-grandmother had ten children, seven of them girls, and the youngest three are only a couple of years older than my mother. In her eyes, they aren’t aunts, but sisters, and they taught her how to survive. All of them have nicknames that don’t match their real names, something that confuses me to this day, and none of them are over five-and-a-half feet tall. Some of them are married, some have children, but all of them are beautiful, successful, and the most cutthroat Jamaican women that I know. In short, they are everything I want to be. Which is why, as I sit at my desk and lose myself in a ten page essay about Gothic literature, I’m wearing a fluffy blue bathrobe, and there are rollers pinned into my black-and-white braids to make the ends curly. Between my love for tea, my obsession with corgis, and the fact that I’m always cold no matter how many sweaters I wear, I sometimes think of myself as an old British woman stuck in a black girl’s body. But today, I emulate Lola, Gloria, and Mervia, from my silk bonnet to bejeweled slippers. My mother isn’t a drinker, but the aunties love a good Mos cato, so when my tea cools down, I add more sugar, swirl the liquid around in my mug, and pretend that it is wine.

Raspberry Cherry Pie Tea: Decaffeinated, brewed with boiling water and steeped for 3-7 minutes. Good for promoting happiness and a sense of well-being, usually combined with flavors like cinnamon, apple, and black currant. Best with sugar and a splash of lemon.

I’ve never had actual afternoon tea, which I think makes me a fraud. The place my paternal grandmother’s taken me for the day is a quaint, decorative tea shop, with lacy tablecloths and forties jazz playing overhead. The menu offers scones and tarts and tiny sandwiches that, until now, I wasn’t sure real people ate. But what impresses me is the tea menu, which has over one hundred different flavors. My grandmother points at a few of them that astound her— Blueberry Cinnamon Crumble, Chocolate Strawberry Sundae, Coconut Macaroon. I’m even surprised by the options listed under “Purple Tea,” some thing I, with all my tea-based knowledge, have never even heard of.

Despite the fact that it’s sweltering outside, we have the tea served hot. I settle on Raspberry Cherry Pie, and she picks Bourbon Street Vanilla, which tastes like sugar and velvet. While the women in my mom’s family all reflect each other, I can tell which parts of me come from my dad and which parts come from his mother, the ones that feel like a secret shared between us. We drink our tea and talk about everything, and when we stand up it’s her height and build that I wear, despite the curves I have from my mother’s side. To say that she lives simply wouldn’t be true; rather, she lives kindly, and holds good things close like pearls in a clenched fist. As I swallow the last of my tea on my way out, I promise myself to hold onto good things too.

Mugwort Tea: Decaffeinated, brewed with boiling water and steeped for 3-5 minutes. Often used to treat menstrual cramps, irregular periods, and as a mild aphrodisiac. Said to induce unusual dreams. Best with plenty of honey or sugar.

Mugwort tastes like pine needles. As in, chewing on a branch of pine needles. But despite the fact that I make a face every time I drink it, my cramps are always gone by the time I’m finished. Still, I’m avoiding the mug on my nightstand until it cools. When I picked the tea in a small shop in Kingston, the man working there smiled as if he’d known my choice the moment I walked in. I remember him telling me about the women who come to his shop, how most of them buy an ounce or two of mugwort with their more refined purchases. He tells me it’s good practice to stir tea clockwise for good fortune, and to tap your spoon on the rim and ask for things you want to bring into your life, one with each tap. So, sitting in my bed with the last of the August sun coming through the windows, I stir my tea to the left. When I tap the rim, I ask for my mother’s peace, my grand mother’s warmth, my aunts’ glamor, my other grandmother’s kindness. And I ask for the knowledge that my future, even if it’s cold and bitter sometimes, will have plenty of sweetness stirred in with it.

untitled (11/21/2020)

night hid the sun. your face consumes my dreams. the dreams wouldn’t stop; you wouldn’t stop. hope leads me to my downfall. perhaps, i should have let you know i want to be left alone, but i don’t like being alone. maybe that’s why you show up in my dreams like the Good Witch, eyes shining like diamonds or maybe you’re like a Christmas Ghost who taunts me with irreplaceable, incomparable memories, watching me suffer with pleasure.

i’m about to give my heart away by

it started with a sky a shared array of constellations pulling us ever so slightly together, birds of a feather holding us under the stars— even though we’re so far

it started with a notion an ever-present feeling, healing broken pieces inside overtly romanticizing, folding us next to each other— even though I’d hate to see you go

you are my ghost haunting me every step i take until i get back to you i know i was playing pretend all this time, but it’s getting real now it’s not my body, not my ribcage splitting apart— in the middle of the night it’s not a nightmare, pulling me down until i can’t breathe

i can feel it, moving around in my chest, and i can hear it, and now i am out of my head because i’m about to give my heart away

Charlotte Drummond

6.24.2022

i like to pretend that my hand is on your chest, not my open book.

By Charlotte Drummond

i shrunk my sweater in the wash

I shrunk my new sweater in the wash today I almost took it out, but I threw it away over one little measly stain guess I forgot to read the label

I shrunk my new sweater in the wash tonight I wasn’t too attached, but it doesn’t feel right to lose something so new so soon and not at the right time in my life

I swore it had a few more years to go I embraced its touch, it was a miracle, the way it had perfectly fit— not too snug and not loosely built and not at the right time in my life

I know I’m far too sad for my own good over a piece of fabric I’d only worn it twice before I shrunk it in the wash, and what was the cost? and I shrunk it at what cost? I ordered another sweater today It looks really pretty on the page, but it don’t feel the same as the one I got that late summer day and not at the right time in my life

I ordered another sweater tonight it wasn’t the one, but it looks alright its green and yellow shades are brighter than the faded navy blue and red and gold

I know I’m far too sad for my own good over a piece of fabric I’d only worn it twice before I shrunk it in the wash and what was the cost?

I shrunk my brand new sweater after feeling under the weather today today today today today

I can run through every thrift store I can run through every mall I can run through every crowded road I can run through every hall

But I won’t see the same sweater I won’t see the same one

I won’t see the same sweater I won’t the see the same one

At what cost?

At what cost?

What was the cost the cost the cost

The cost the cost the cost The cost the cost the cost

I shrunk my sweater I shrunk it in the wash I shrunk my sweater in the wash today Today today today