To Earth
From Venus
Untitled Laura Copan
This is coming from someone riding the swift and thrilling tidal wave that is rebound obsession. This one’s different, though. It’s fueled by a lightness – a silliness that’s agreeable and refreshing and familiar. He bares his quirks so freely, honestly; he hands them out like party favors. My love for him is not fueled by his accomplishments, though they are impressive. It’s not fueled by the jeans only someone like him could pull off. It’s not fueled by his rock-star bedhead sex hair. It’s not even fueled by his dimples, though they do add two happy sparks to his already-golden personality. It’s fueled by the simplicity he embodies and admires, his open and affectionate nature, his refreshing love of the domestic, his savory attitude towards life, and his deep, slow voice. The voice that makes the word “suck” sound like “serendipity.” The voice that delivers a powerhouse vocal in every single chorus like a steady, sturdy Clydesdale. The voice that whispers homemade melodies. The voice that shouts with enthusiasm and wakes me up. The voice that uses its power and reach to say positive things when the average person would succumb to bitterness. The voice that would sooner spew nonsense about himself than risk hurting anyone. The voice that is so strong, it doesn’t defend itself.
cover art by Jenna Kolakowski
Untitled Laura Copan Romantic love is projection Euphemistic for erotic Narcissistic, hedonistic, and unrealistic. Obsessive, unrequited love is illusion Like vibrant colors that appear on the backs of eyelids when facing the sun Idealistic delusion, chemical confusion. Sometimes love is appreciation That unworthy feeling when others sacrifice out of responsibility Or perform random acts of blindness. Other times, love is admiration That self-doubting feeling of awe When you feel special, whole, worthy when someone so beautiful is so close to you. Desperate love is grasping. Possessive love is desire. Young love is acting, adapting, collapsing, distracting. Often, love is just a foggy fire. When you have a hazy spark, It might grow, it might not. Or maybe it was once bright, now cloudy. Full flames are rare. Beware. Wait. What about true love?
You know, the selfless kind? Letting someone go? Setting someone free? As in, “I’d rather see him happy Than stuck with me?” True love is altruism. That might mean you’ll only know you have it when you lose it. But not all who wander are lost, And when things seem nonsensical, They’re just being cyclical. If they’re lucky, heroes and heroines can grow and love side-by-side. But phases come and go. People leave to grow. And sometimes they grow apart Before they can come home. So love. Love the best you can. Go through the stages, Don’t stick to the plan. Be as innocently fearless As Peter Pan. Mature love is comfort, dependability, trust, honesty. What’s really special is fiery maturity: A full flame fueled by genuine and confident Appreciation, admiration, and altruism. Requited and real Replaces the ideal, Too mature to be impure, Not too jaded to know for sure. Passion is inadequate Without the three letters in front of it. But just love. Love the best you can.
Change Starts Now Nayesdi Badillo-Delgado
She could have been an accountant. She is excellent at saving money. She has a natural talent in making money last. I always admired how she stretched every penny in order to feed us. Thanks to her excellent way of paying attention to detail, she was able to know what store had the better deals. Yes, we were poor and did not have much money to begin with, but her excellent accounting skills provided us with the essentials. She could have been a chef. Oh just to remember! She cooks like an angel. It is as if every bite of her delicious food comes with a special ingredient: love. You can feel it in your mouth, in your soul. I have never met such a dedicated chef. Every meal is made with so much love that just remembering makes my mouth water. I remember as a child all I wanted to do afterschool was to get to home. I would rush to my house. As soon as I would go into my house, the delicious smells will make me hungry and excited. Just by smelling what she was cooking, would made me feel as if I was in paradise. Her precision in every dish makes her the best cook in the world. Nobody can cook as well as she does. She could have been a doctor. She knew what was wrong with my siblings and I just by looking at us. No doctor knew her patients better than her. Just by touching our forehead and rubbing our stomachs, pain would magically go away or decrease. She always knew what medicine was good for our illnesses. The way she would take care of my siblings and I was special. It could have been three in the morning or late night, she was always available to take care of her patients. The amount of love she would put in her care and remedies was immense. I was never afraid to be sick, because I had my doctor available whenever I needed. She could have been an accountant, a chef, a doctor, she could have been anything in this world. Unfortunately, she could not. Fate was evil with her. She was so talented, so smart and yet that was not enough. Her limited resources only allowed her to finish third grade. Third grade, she was eight years old and her future was truncated. Who am I kidding? Even if she had the financial resources, she could not have studied. She was a woman. Yes, a woman, how dare she dream with being something else that was not a housewife? How dare she, being smart and talented? Only men can have those talents. Only man can have dreams. Oh what a cruel fate! That woman, the one that could not be someone in life, the one that was condemned to be a housewife, that woman is my mother, my inspiration and my hero. She did not have the opportunities I have. She was cursed the day she was born, just because she was a woman. Let me tell you something, that woman that only completed third grade is more talented than many people I know. I am the daughter of a worrier and I will fight to take back what is mine. I am here to claim what is mine. Women for years we have lived under a cruel society. For years we have endured many injustices. It is time to take the lead of our fate and say no more. We are here to claim the rights that once were taken away from our female ancestors. We are not only good for bearing children and taking care of our house, we can be professionals. We can be anything we want to. Change starts now!!
Slayer
Fairytales
She captures your attention by the way her nail polish shimmers in the pulsing lights of the otherwise darkened room, hands thrown up in the air with abandon. She moves with her eyes closed, her lips stretched wide, like she’s letting the beat rush through her blood. Someone’s fingertips are pressing into her hips hard enough to bruise. Somehow you know she doesn’t care whose, just wants the marks—a tangible reminder that this night existed to tap into tomorrow, when she will press on them in the shower just hard enough to hurt, relishing the insistent burn.
Give me chubby cheeks and toothless smiles. Fill my hands with rounded elbows and dimpled knees. I want sweaty hair that mats to his forehead when he races through the backyard on stubby legs, shrieking with giggles. I want the temper-tantrums at bedtime, adorably insistent pleas through giveaway yawns and heavy eyelids.
Alyssa Lentz
Alyssa Lentz
But for now the room is thick with the tight press of bodies, a flush blooming in her cheeks, a sheen of sweat beading across her brow. Her feet must ache in three-inch heels but it’s like she can’t stop moving to the sound of glitter in the air, paired with the grounding pulse of the bass, in sync with the thumping in her chest. The crowd around her doesn’t matter; she is as unreachable as the ballerina dancing in a snow globe. Her eyes say she’s a little bit drunk with power as she catches the heady lust in the eyes of the boys surrounding her, knowing she could have any of them and choosing to turn them all down. She is sex on long legs in a little black dress, born to be high on adrenaline, a soul and body united. She is moving the way your mother said “good girls” don’t do, and she is greedily guzzling your desire like a four course meal made just for her.
I promise not to get upset over the grass-stained knees on brand new jeans, dirty diapers, or the sticky jam hands on the clean white countertops. I won’t lose my mind when there’s marker on the walls, or bathtub puddles trailing to his bedroom. I don’t just want the messiness… I crave it like a caffeine rush, an insistent thrumming in my blood. Remember how you laughed when I popped my hip out? Little did you know I was just waiting to balance a baby on it. You rolled your eyes when we babysat together that Sunday afternoon as I batted my lashes at you after I’d tickled their twin tummies and kissed their matching heels, but how could you know about the sweet ache in my chest? It won’t be perfect. I won’t lie—I’m a little bit scared about nine months of doctor’s appointments and tests and weird cravings. Just not enough to stop wanting this. And then there will be puke in my hair, sleep deprivation, constant worry. But there will also be first steps and the smell of baby powder, goodnight kisses and elaborate games of make-believe, gentle snores on your chest and the most precious gurgles in the world. (I want to hold your hand through all of it. Please don’t make me start over.)
Her hair flairs around her untamed and wild; her lips are as red as sin. You watch her, and you want her. She wants you to want her, but not to have her. And suddenly you are thinking of the hunting lioness, face stained with blood, and you are thinking of empowerment. You are thinking of the femme fatale. Of the Amazons. You watch her start to leave, and she sees you. She shoots you her middle finger on her way out the door. All it takes is that split second to realize how absurd it was to think for one single moment that you knew her.
banter on, I’m almost home Amanda Sayad
I’m used to long hauls at this point in my life. Packing up my baggage while I purge my mind.
door and wander through all the veined hallways that led you straight to my heart.
Why do we feel the need to put long term certifications on our relationships? I’m so raw right now.
The driving’s not so bad --company could use work. Because these thoughts banter on and the music merely blurs them.
Raw in every shape, form. It scares me because I know you could break me with the simple utterance
But the only thing I care about in this moment is that your smile is the sign that welcomes me home.
of a few words-and I never meant to let you pass through my front
a progressional series of diminishing memories Amanda Sayad
When we’re babies, we’re overdosed on comfort. But as we grow older, it diminishes. And we’re all left to comfort ourselves. I took so much time to intricately intertwine you into my life – my mind. And that’s why it’s been so hard to get you out. I finally looked at your pictures today and I realized I truly don’t miss you. I miss what I thought we were; how I felt being with you. And I know that one day I’ll feel that way again. It just won’t be because of you.
Pieces
Uniformity
Sometimes I take out my eyes and fold them into little cranes so that they can fly far, far above myself to see the view I never could.
Sometimes I think I want to be a pretty sorority girl.
Miranda Marques
Anonymous
I watch myself. Pieces of me slide down the drain as I press a razor to my skin. I cry out from above, “Why?” I don’t feel pretty, like the other girls. “But you are so beautiful! Why?” The pieces keep falling as reasons fail to come to mind. From above, I cannot see fine hair. I cannot see stretch marks, I can’t see pimples and scars. I only see myself, an artist who repaints a canvas over and over again. The pieces keep falling.
The kind of person who finds value in waking up too early, turning on a curling iron and having a beauty routine. Going for a natural makeup look because she’s mastered approachability. An unspoken uniform I’ll never understand: The infamous “duck boots, yoga leggings, lettered shirt, northface jacket” combo. I want to like who I am But I can’t help that I want male attention at the same time. I don’t know why these girls who all look the same and act pretty similar seem to land dates and boyfriends and hold hands across the drillfield and make out on the TOTS deck, rails fresh on their mouths.I’ll never fit in and I usually don’t care but I miss how nice it is to feel desired. Not male affirmation, fuck what you think I should say or do or wear, but male attention to know that it’s possible to fuck me for who I am. I haven’t kissed anybody in a year and it’s starting to hurt.
25th Annual Take Back the Night Rally and March to End Violence Against Women
This bucket list event raises awareness of violence against women, shares resources available locally, and gives individuals tools to help create positive change. Women, men, and children are encouraged to participate, either as individuals or as part of a group, in the rally and march through campus and Downtown Blacksburg. Organizations are invited to bring signs or a group banner. Raise your voice to help lessen violence in our community. Together we’ll Take Back the Night! Hosted by Womanspace at Virginia Tech For more information contact Alyssa Seidorf alyssas9@vt.edu
Thursday, March 27th Pre-Rally Music: 6:30 pm Rally: 7:00 pm Henderson Lawn on College Ave