Maggie Hoppel

waterpark surrealism

Claire He

last night, i dreamt that you slipped into that liminal space in the Marriott hotel— delirium in clouded neon reflections, the wallpaper chalk-white under your nails— sprawling yourself on the balcony. you told me that i’d regret you. the waterpark never shines that bright, but in the dream, it blinded me like the night you sank me in the bathtub—when i almost drowned, when you poured the champagne into the hazy lights, telling me to drink. it was the Fourth of July when you stomped the match out in the hallway outside the old hotel room. your brother’s cigarette smoke choking the air. i gasped, slipping on the pool tiles like i couldn’t breathe the way you did, chlorine in my nostrils. mascara smeared down my neck, where your lipstick faded. you said you’d show me thirst. bliss. suffocating me in your damp jacket. i hung my hair to dry on the balcony, tipping my head over the railing; there you were, holding out your hand. your kiss tasted like matcha. dancing like swallowing like falling all over again. playing spider solitaire at the arcade. you were right, you know, when you said i’d regret you. you, shivering in your blouse. you, brighter in my dreams. medical-white cheeks resting on first-aid kits. stealing the LEDs from the arcade before pushing me underwater. at 1 a.m., i bundle a match in your towel as the fire alarm goes off, winding your 90’s television cassettes, shattering a lollipop between my canines, and i plunge from overstayed liminality into the pool, pretending i’m reaching for you.

To Get a Boyfriend

Maggie Hoppel

She asked me one day, sitting against the wall With her legs sprawled out in front of her, Maggie, Why is it so hard to get a boyfriend? And I recited my usual spiel, Inconsequential words like beautiful and talented and Worthy dribbling from my lips Staining my jacket And I told her that The full forty nine percent of males on this Oversized rock we call Earth were bumbling Idiots for not falling to their knees and Proposing here and now To this breathtaking bride in her alligator Loki sweatshirt And low rise skinny jeans.

Unfortunately, my thoughts are a worthless currency. My encouragement is forever inflating Her ego, confidence, but Each time it loses a little more of its value. You could say it’s all hot air. Because if the words I said to her were true Then they would echo Again and again and again Beautiful and talented and Worthy across A hundred tongues and a thousand mouths and Seven point nine billion minds. Because if the words I said to her were true She’d have a boyfriend.

Why is it so hard to get a boyfriend, Maggie? That’s not the question she meant to ask that day, Wondering why he flaked out on the football game Even though she did everything right, All smiles and mascara and Insta DMs playing it cool. (But, you know, not too cool.)

No, the million-dollar question here is Why is it so hard to be content with the people who already love us? As humans, we need each other. To love and to be loved Is an essential part of who we are as a species But what isn’t essential Is a zit-faced, gangly sophomore to hold your hand And slime your lips with his spit And tell you you’re special Because you can’t believe it any other way. Love is more than that— Parents and friends and teachers and your enormous senior dog who Snores through all your Zoom meetings Loud enough for the whole class to hear If you forget to mute your microphone. And don’t forget self-love, either. I love myself. I’m a floral print Miracle of dad jokes and acne and loyalty. Does that kind of love not count? I know Taylor Swift doesn’t think so And Bridgerton and Titanic and Kermit and Miss Piggy and Donner and Blitzen and The boys in the south parking lot at school Singin’ them dirty rap songs With racist jokes and little girls called By their vaginas, never their names. You know we hear that, right? Why we want to give our love, our Bodies, to people who saturate their minds with Such prejudice and hate is worthy of Its own Buzzfeed Unsolved episode. But we do. We think we need you To give us value.

So, I say it’s about time you boyfriends waited for us, The full fifty one percent of women on this Oversized rock we call Earth Who are finally waking up from this Centuries-old nightmare of insecurity. I say it’s time for us little girls to Cultivate the constant relationships in our lives, The ones that don’t begin and end over text, The ones that make us feel real and brave and alive and Remind us that what we actually need has been inside us all along.