PITY PARTY a sad girl zine Issue no. 1
Who We Are Pity Party is a feminist art zine physically based in downtown Phoenix, Arizona and conceptually based in artist Audrey Wollen’s Sad Girl Theory. We love Mitski, Sylvia Plath and Frida Kahlo.
Reach out! pitypartyplanningcommittee @gmail.com pitypartyzine.wordpress.com
Absence
Brittany Jacques Since you’ve left My sockets are filled with swollen tears Gradients of grey pour into the bedroom where we once lay The imprint of your body has been preserved in the sheets Tenderly dying roses wait at the kitchen table; And the soft purr of the apartment generator calls through the walls. Since you’ve left I have been left in a daze The rosy red cheeks that belonged to me have faded The bed has become cold An empty vase sits on the kitchen table; And the muffled sounds of lives around me seep through the vents. Since you’ve left My fingers begin to miss yours Soft pink lips call out your name The sheets have fallen to the floor A vase that once held flowers has disappeared; And only the vastness of silence permeates through the room.
And so did we Laura Bargfeld
I couldn’t go back inside. Dressing-room mirrors were smeared with seven shades of lipstick, peach to brick red. Strings of hair curled in the sinks and flittered on the edges of tool dresses and polished black dancing shoes. The giggling was a buzzing hive. The cool kids sipped vodka from their Gatorade bottles, and teacher, teacher, and teacher chortled at the table over worries and wontons. The room was pitch-black walls, black ceilings, black floors, black chairs, and very white people. It was a break in a marathon; one threehour show in the morning, one in the evening, and two hours in between. Two hours of that. So, I couldn’t go back inside. Not when outside, there was her. Her hair was fuzzy felt red and sundress blue, her eyes like robin’s eggs, hatching something. We spent our time chasing each other in the green grass, in the wet mud. Exchanging lunch for covert lust, sleigh-bell knees bumping, hair fanned like fireworks. When she laughed, her face soared upward, extending toward the sunrays that now create lens flares in my imperfect memory. I remember that burning feeling of defrosting from that cool lagoon of everything and everyone always watching. Always watching. No one was watching now. Kiss me. I thought it like a command, like a plea to whoever was pulling our strings. I wanted them to be braided together, pulled into sailor’s knots so we wouldn’t drift away. Kiss me. And because of that same unnamed thing that lives at the marina and holds our shirt backs to keep us from plunging off the dock, I didn’t. And we retreated inside. And the show went on. And so did we.
Church is Coming In Raquelle Potts
Here they come again, right on time—just after ten o’clock. They file into the lobby one by one, holding the glass double doors open for one another. They look onward to the dining room, some of them plopping down into the booths in the waiting area by the bathrooms, waiting for some miserable employee to walk to the podium and greet them. “How many in your party?” We always ask (whoever gets to the front of the restaurant first), knowing that we have to keep a convincing smile on our faces. The number is never fewer than ten guests. Ten is a manageable number. Fifteen is even doable. Anything beyond that is horror. As I’m taking an order only a few booths away, I look up to see the beginnings of what will be an awful night. The one in charge of talking to the wait staff tonight (how do they determine this?) is older, wearing a blouse that looks as though it could pass as a men’s pajama shirt—buttoned all the way to the top, thick cotton, off-white with far too many soft pink flowers for the finish. The shirt is tucked neatly into her long jean skirt, which practically sweeps the floor. I can see white scuffed tennis shoes peeking out the bottom. All of the girls dress this way, although I can tell the jean material is probably somewhat of a no-no in this community. They’re business/church casual, if you can imagine what that looks like. All of them with their skirts, perfectlyironed blouses, and hive-like hair that must take hours to perfect—it’s all for church service, which I’ve heard is only a few miles away from the shithole diner that I’ve worked at for way longer than I planned. These people are by far the worst part of my job, and they have no idea why. Hence why they continue to come in just an hour or so before closing time without giving our staff an ounce of notice despite their massive party size. I see that the one with the man-pajama shirt mouth “twenty” to the hostess. Twenty. Great, wonderful. This particular night happens to be
the worst night of the week every single week I’ve worked at this place. It’s Wednesday, which means everyone gets free pie so long as they buy something. We are relentlessly busy on this day every week, from the moment I clock in to hours after we’ve closed and I’ve finally finished cleaning. “I’ll have the VIB,” my current table declares, interrupting my internal panic attack as I watch the manager push table after table together, setting out menus and silverware as she goes. She’s yelling at the poor teenage hostess with fluorescent eye shadow. “Okay, great!” I have to say enthusiastically. Don’t let them know that you’re barely paying attention. “What would you like to have with that?” You have to pick four items out of four available categories for this meal. Explaining this to the geriatric frequents is never easy. “I’ll take two eggs, over-medium. Then, half hash browns and half country potatoes—“ Are you joking? The kitchen is going to laugh at me when I ask them for that. I write it down anyway. What the customer wants, the customer gets, even if it is not permitted by corporate. “And then I’ll take two country-fried steaks, smothered in extra gravy.” When I’m done taking the order, I race to the kitchen to find every member of the staff panicking. “Who’s gonna take that party!?” “I don’t want it! I have a full section! I can’t do it.” “We have a party of twenty waiting to be sat!” Absolute chaos. Oh, great. Here comes the manager, and she looks furious. “Who was out on the floor talking shit about that big top?” She screams down the expediting line. Everyone quiets, and I can only hear the whirl of the heat fans in the kitchen window. Realistically, that could have been any of us, because we all hate that table. You really have to be willing to take one for the team to take them. “That lady heard you assholes say that they never call before they come in, and she came up to me nearly crying because she was so hurt by what you guys said about her.” The manager is spitting venom. She’s still new, still thinks that there is a possibility we will ever follow the rules handed down to
us from corporate, which sits hundreds of miles away from us in some Midwestern state, pushing paper instead of setting food in an actual restaurant. “It was me!” Justine, my best friend who also got me this job, admits. She’s worked at this location for three years, with the company for five. “We’ve been telling them for years that they need to call before they come in so we can get ready, and they never listen.” Justine is right. We subtly sneak this in however we can nearly every time we see them in that lobby. They still show unannounced. “That’s not how this company runs, Justine,” she snarls through her clenched teeth. “You know damn well that we don’t take reservations and you never have to call to get a table here.” On that note, it’s quickly decided that I will take the table. I’m the only one who can because my section is essentially empty, but I know that means I’ll be losing money on the only two tables I have right now because I won’t be around to give them good service. I also risk another server taking whatever money they leave me because my eyes will be on the big top. Wednesdays are the busiest nights of the week every week but unsurprisingly the nights when I make the least money. I walk out to the dining room where the big top is talking to each other very loudly. This makes everyone around them at other tables raise their voices in conversation so that they can hear one another over the big party. The dining room is booming then, and I can barely hear myself think. I recognize them all at the large table, had them many times before. In fact, the last time I had them, they came in an hour before close on Christmas Eve—thirty five of them that time. I thought that night was the worst night I’d had at this job, but a new night comes along to clench that title nearly every week. “Can I bring you folks anything to drink?” They ignore me. They always do. Well, they look at me, and I can see that they’re paying attention to me (sometimes), but they never answer my questions. I have taken this same party with one other male server and noticed then that they
respond joyously and sharply to him every time he speaks, not missing a beat to try to sound polite. I am lucky to get a response out of most of them. “Would anyone like anything else to drink beside water?” I have the hostess and the busser in the back traying up twenty small waters, which I will struggle to hold steadily as I carry them out to the floor in a few moments. I feel like I’m screaming at this point, talking way too loudly to be appropriate. I can feel every eyeball in the dining room on me. “I’ll have a Dr. Pepper,” one of the boys shouts to me. The kids are always the rudest ones, I remember. “I have Mr. Pibb. Will that be okay?” How many times have I told you that? We’ve never had Dr. Pepper here before. “Ehhh, well…” he trails off. “Are the refills on the strawberry limeade free?” “No, sorry. They’re not.” I have to offer some alternative that is free, I know. “The lemonade is, though.” Why is this taking so long? I have nineteen more of you to get to. I don’t have time for this. “Ughh…I’ll just get a Pibb,” he decides. You got it, pal. After I finally get everyone’s drink orders, I walk away knowing I need to make two coffees with cream, an iced mocha, iced tea, and a cherry Sprite, which means this asshole wants me to put whole maraschino cherries in his soda. That’s it. That’s a cherry Sprite, which is not on the menu and very time consuming to make. What else did I expect? I bring the drinks, set them on the tables. “Are we ready to order? Do we need some more time?” They, again, stare blankly at me like my eyeballs are hanging out of the sockets. Please, just fucking tell me what you want. I look around—the whole dining room is full. Justine has the only other big party, which also only comes in on Wednesday, runs the server’s ass ragged, and is only here for the free shit. Every booth is full, and my
other tables are looking longingly around the room for me because I forgot to bring them ranch, sugar-free syrup, and a refill. In my defense, I have a pretty good reason. It takes me probably fifteen minutes to get the whole order. Then another five to put the whole order in after struggling to read my own handwriting, and another two minutes to fight with the kitchen over a ham sandwich that I need grilled rather than simply thrown together on bread. Deviations from the menu are consistently met with grunts and snarky remarks in Spanish, which I barely speak. I run the food as it comes out. They begin stuffing their faces, and the heat is off of me. When the food is on the table, I know I can relax… slightly. “Sinner!” one of the boys shouts across the table as I attempt to buss empty plates out of the customers’ way. He’s yelling at his friend, but I would have agreed had he been calling me that. “Sister Karen, can you pass me the ketchup!” This is how they address one another, I’ve come to learn. Sister, Brother X, Y, or Z. I still am not quite sure what religious affiliation they subscribe to, but listening to the gossip when I’m nearby is still a guilty pleasure. I’m curious about their lives, and I notice other customers’ curiosity every time they come in, since they draw so much attention to themselves. Justine had to take the only black family that goes to the church, which the group makes sit at a separate table far from the larger, all-white group. They’re very pleasant, I learn when they ask me what pies they can get for free tonight in the middle of me bringing refills to the big top. I know the list by heart—apple, cherry, strawberry rhubarb, triple berry, lemon meringue, pumpkin (or pumpkin crème if you’re fancy), french apple and white chocolate cherry. “Lemon meringue?” the grandmother, who is in a wheelchair, cries with complete joy. “That’s what I’m gonna have!” She tells who I assume is her daughter sitting next to her. I smile, thank them, and continue laying new glasses out to the teens at the far end who are guzzling everything down.
As I’m reaching between padded shoulders and hairspray-hardened hair to clear dishes before the main event (pie), I notice Justine bring a refill to the boy sitting at the end of the family’s table. “Thank you so much!” he tells her, and she smiles her perfect customerservice smile and tells him he’s very welcome. As she walks away, I hear them whisper. “Mom, is it okay if I say ‘thank you?’” Why wouldn’t it be, I wonder. “Yes, son. Brother Joseph told me that ‘thank you’ is okay.” The boy nods. As the table begins filing out after they receive their pie (either in boxes or chilled brown plates with a cold fork) and leaving the table, I have to start cleaning the mess left behind. Shredded straw wrappers decorate the floors like a confetti bomb exploded under tables sixty-one through sixty-four. A cup of lollipops sits by the register and is a famed favorite of many children who are towed into this place by their parents. As consequence, I often find half-sucked suckers stuck to the table tops or the thin, slobbery sticks underneath the chairs and in the cracks of the booths. As I’m gathering the last of the dishes, I pick up a sauce cup which appears to have ranch in it. Moving too quickly, I yank it off of the table to find that the girl who only ordered a side of fries mixed a couple tablespoons worth of her water with the ranch, which explains why it ended up all down the front of my shirt and in my apron, where my day’s wages are crammed into the pockets. “Thank you, folks, have a good night! See you next time!”
Airport Garden Jamie Leland
The guy sitting across the courtyard appears to be engrossed in a large book. I say “appears to be” because he’s posing. He knows I’m looking at him, and he’s putting on a show. He runs his hand through his long, wavy hair. He makes his body look relaxed and fluid on the concrete bench. The book looks like it’s brimming with wisdom. Its covers are missing and its naked, yellowed pages are curled around in his hand. I’m not sure how anyone could have gotten so far in such a thick, dated text. All I like is American literature — preferably under 400 pages, the type canonized for its down-to-earth vernacular. I don’t look for wisdom in books. Mostly, I look for myself. There I am in Bukowski and Miller when I’m down, drinking more calories than I’m eating. Sometimes Whitman if I’m feeling manic and sexy. Dylan if I’m feeling political. Point is, I’m a thoroughly American girl and while I want to seem patient, considerate, and intelligent, I have no affection for a text that fat. It’s pretentious, hard to hold, and takes way too long to read. Besides, judging by the seductive look this guy shot me, there are more interesting things with which to occupy your mind. It could be that this big, fat book is just a clever ploy to eventually plunge his cock into some unsuspecting lady. Maybe it serves as not just a representation of his intellect, but of his big, fat dick. Challenging, but satisfying. Perhaps even life-changing. It’s a good trick. I’ve fallen for it before and probably would again. I admire his commitment. He looks like he’s about halfway though that massive volume. I wonder what it is. Maybe he’s reading the Tibetan Book of the Dead. Maybe he’s reading Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. I’m afraid to look at him because I don’t want him to approach me, but god do I want to look at him. He’s young and handsome and probably unambitious, judging by his hemp anklet, his bare feet, his shining natural highlights. His backpack is made of natural fibers, stocked with backpacking gear.
I bet he smokes weed but doesn’t drink. I bet he’s had a profound acid trip. It probably changed his whole outlook on life. Maybe that’s when he decided to start looking handsome in airport gardens. He’s good at it, but it doesn’t seem like a sustainable career. It probably doesn’t matter because, I bet, the money he spends belongs to his parents. I bet he loves Kerouac. I bet he saw the best minds of his generation destroyed by affluence, white male privileged, floating through suburbia at dawn looking for a spliff to smoke openly in the park. I bet he puts Eastern cultures on a pedestal and denounces Western medicine. I bet he wears a mala. I bet he’s raw vegan for nutritional and spiritual reasons. I bet his exercise regimen includes yoga and the Kama Sutra. I bet he’s fun in bed, a borderline inconsiderate lover. Maybe he’d pull my hair. Maybe he’d bite my neck and throw me on the bed. Maybe his dick really is as thick and cut as his coverless book. Maybe I’ll ask him what he’s reading. He’ll say, “War and Peace,” and I’ll say, “That’s ambitious.” He’ll ask me what I was writing, and I’ll say, “None of your business.” He’ll say, “Hey, I answered your question,” and I’ll respond, “Your question was a bit more personal.” He’ll push, but I won’t tell him because I was writing this. “Was it about me?” he’ll ask, and I’ll give him a coy look as if to say, “Yes.” We’ll be hot, but we can’t fuck because we’re in an airport. He’ll ask me where I’m headed, I’ll ask him the same. It won’t be the same place and even if it was, meeting up wouldn’t work out. He’ll ask for my number and I’ll surrender it politely. I might imagine him shoving his fictitious cock into me while I snake my fingers through his thick hair in the following weeks, but I’ll never answer his texts more than a couple of times because I have a boyfriend, and besides, an affluent hippie in the airport garden isn’t worth the trouble, no matter how shiny his hair.
Untitled Wanda
No stranger will recognize She Not from face, name, or legacy 15 years ago, past centuries, or belief She left no mark with her feet They all said, “She died a long time ago” Wasn’t here long Made no friends nor lasting foes Simply breathed smoke Her existence was still as a pond She once puffed: “We are all pre-determined. I have felt enough.” “Then what happened?” The grass ate her dreams They stole the mystery of the night Burned her lessons! She lost all spirit to fight To change the world Undo the cruel mold “Did she?… You know.” She let go.
Enter My Microworld Wanda
Kill me, let me leave Asphyxiate my life life Head in a fishbowl The string cuts and sewn into a new weave Everything blurs How long have I been standing in front of you? Doped up on dopamine Each time I breathe, exhale your carbon dioxide Turning my lungs into a toxic waste sea That dies /rip off my skin pore by pore Saw my tongue through the last muscle fabric Let my smile and fallen teeth hang in my limp lip Take your finger and tweezers pull pupils apart Till my eyes are a spewing pool of black Dispose of this body yet keep my heart intact Hold it like a helpless bird That dies Awaken in my micro-world Absolved of function and calculation I throb in bliss and anticipation I am a ghost inside you Lifeless in time & space, not in existence Meaning our proximity defies deterioration We shed our largeness for small Let go of memory To enter this micro-place Simply to be in front of your face Naked of all intelligence In order to live in full presence Boundless in finite truth I am free from the macro-sleuth
Untitled Wanda
Like a candle on my cake I never thought of you as a wish I can make So I puffed my cheeks and took a blow Yet your fire stayed, burned and glowed And your colors dripped, dropped, and melted in a mess Blues, yellows, pinks Your substance plopped on my sugary top Chocolate, cherry, coffee Bitter, tart, sweet Myriad sensations, good enough to eat I couldn’t resist Especially because of the warmth it brought to my cheeks But I knew it wouldn’t last forever I can’t eat my cake and have it too Can’t only be friends and let these feelings brew So I had you Closed my eyes and believed that dreams of chance, romance, love Do come true Inhaled a deep breath, puckered my mouth out to your tip A flame so hot, it reddened my lips When my eyes opened, you were gone and the cake too Something changed, I could feel the new
Untitled Wanda
Our skin never does change Ugly is in the snarl We feel beaten and betrayed, reduced to a slow crawl Age isn’t the sign of sage Our eyes never sag We aren’t out of love But reject lifting our heads to the heavenly above Lips so soft are chapped Trapped in conceptions that our ego know all My feet are callous My mind is an empty palace I walk through it when I can’t sleep The lights are heavy Hug-mugged tugged after we split These memories are keeping me drugged Nerves on lip lock Tingles represent ankles twisting, fingers tracing, and listening to your heart racing But I let myself space Only helpful to save face I want my eyes to reach yours and there is nothing to be owed
Considering nihilism Faith Miller
I’m starting to feel a bit worn down, Dragged by my hair down a sandpaper hallway but no longer kicking and screaming. The calluses are beginning to form, Tough and swollen and ugly, My flesh balloons from my bones. I inhale smoke And exhale indifference.
I love you Faith Miller
I love you more than ben & jerry’s in bed, red velvet retribution for self pity that was never myself. I love you more than knee socks, clean, crisp, white, pure, damages sustained. I love you dancing in the rain, world spinning, eyes closing, a stranger’s mouth on my neck-and I love you crying. My tears are always buried just beneath my skin, stretched taut over a sea of boiling uncertainty They beckon you ? I love you hunched over the toilet, I try to vomit up my sins but you have already absorbed their energy. I love you curled up in the corner. I try to be sad, I am sad, I lick the sadness off my lips. I love you driving at night, when the mountains tell me I am lonely and in the early morning fog when my conscience is as hazy as my memories of you I love you in between the stars and my pillow. and in the blank spaces when I can’t feel anything else. I love you and I love your ghosts, they follow me, Down the road that leads to your house. and they find me, Shaking and alone.
El heredero soltero Marianna Hauglie
“You know my brother,” and the man’s voice is this breathy, beer-scented rasp; “you know my brother, he’s a millionaire.” “Mhmm?” I’m watching his face, which manages a grin that’s only moderately seedy to accompany a knowledgeable display of sun lines. His voice drops a bit lower. “He is a millionaire, but he still lives with my father. Back home. He cannot claim his share.” “Of the family fortune?” There being a conveniently placed decorative rail directly between us, I decide to engage the man. I don’t ask where “back home” is. Could be Cuba, Guatemala, Miami? “Yeah, yeah. My father, he cannot give it to him. He lives with my father. And he is a millionaire.” “Yeah?” I’m smiling, thoroughly enjoying this man. He leans on the rail between us, leering over it a bit, gripping it with one hand and gesticulating with the other. The buttons on his grimy printed shirt sag forward in rhythm, for emphasis. “My brother cannot claim his fortune, and he is unmarried.” “So that’s why he’s living with your father?” “Yes and no.” The man’s head bobs back and forth. “He is a millionaire, but we have this rule. In my culture, there is a rule.” I see where this is going. I move back from the rail some, still enjoying it. This guy has his routine practiced to absolute perfection, drunkenness included. He continues to wave the one hand about, now directing it at me.
“My brother, he must find a wife. Then my father will let him claim his share.” “Ah.” Poor nonexistent brother. Sounds like he’s having a pretty rough time of it. “You see … if you … if I … I am a millionaire, too.” I’m fascinated, and this is beyond good. The man’s gestures grow more descriptive in my direction, head-to-toe form. Nod, nod, sun line crinkle. I don’t want to hear the rest of his pitch, but I don’t want to ruin this. “Do you mind if I take your picture?” The man pauses for a second, then consents. Whipping a harmonica out of his shirt pocket, he begins to wheeze on it. He is well-practiced but far from skilled. What he lacks in the credibility department he makes up for in flourishes, these accomplished by his still-free second hand, which goes back to describing the sky with the same motions it had been using to describe me a moment ago. I snap a photo, but it doesn’t turn out, so I snap another one and tuck my battered camera away. Every gasp of his instrument narrates my camera as it appears and then leaves, and the flourishes became increasingly more exaggerated, presumably in some kind of pose. “Thanks.” I adjust my bag on my shoulder. He’s clearly distracted. I move away, still fascinated. “Oh, but I’ll play you another song!” “Thank you, but no.” I keep moving, amused. Behind me I hear the most drawn-out flourish of all, then some muttering as the man returns the harmonica to his pocket. “Never works.”
Cable-Knit
Kimberly Koerth only when I enter into silence do I still hear the ringing bodies pushing, ears tremble it has been two days only when I exit white-wall institution do I still feel the chill lower back, beneath sweater it has been one day at 18 I am learning to trust emotions when learning to fear words how still learning I lied tomorrow the pattern comes off life restarts, ears hear, bones warm heart thuds on, mostly vertical only regretting inaction I make no promises
Circumference Kimberly Koerth
we both slept on the floor last night, twin nautilus spirals curled around ribcages and dead pets and hearts that don’t understand love I bury hope in the ghosts of people living thousands of miles away as you grasp to reel Santa Fe spirits closer angry voices ebb back into whispers, the same hush roar I have heard since I was 5, when everything began the way a punch low to the gut makes the edges of vision darken together as time blurs, spirals away when light and dark level out on the horizon and the world, content, finally sleeps a pair of eyes opens, another closes together, again in and out of sync, always two glass hearts
Manual for Human Efficacy, Publisher’s Edition Molly Bilker
The living room is a void now. It ate my couch. I skip over the spaces between days like cracks in a sidewalk. In some spots, the stitches in the universe wear thin. You grin and stick your fingers through. I see your fingertips. My house has become a cyclone of sickness and silence. I bring the TV into my room to watch repeats of telenovelas. I add an asterisk to the word “sorry” in permanent marker on the wall. I press my lips to it, then my forehead, doing what I can to stomach the leaving.
Mexican Wolf Confessional Molly Bilker
Against the scream of the train in tunnel dark, I think, again, about you lying side by side, not touching. She asked questions about my future; you dozed off. Why am I still thinking of your shoes? Forgetting my ID in the hotel bedroom? I sense a dream that is not: I am buried in wolves, a fine layer of dust, a raw and bitter wind. In my calendar, I leave a small checkmark to verify the weekend-the long highways, first beers, the never-once-imagined I love you in a Circle K at midnight, and me in yoga pants with my shoes untied. A small message to myself to remember and forget loving you, too, one weekend as your body melted into slumber in her bed, smelling of Dos Equis and cigarettes, salt, dust and confession.
I Fell in Love with John Lennon Cera Naccarato
You hold me down two fingers between my teeth. Hippie beard Scratching at the back of my neck as your chest forces my stomach down. Quiet. For someone who preaches free love your hands bruise the wrists That tenderly stroked you and rip the hair I curled to impress you. Moan. Your hand finds its way to my mouth in a quick Stinging slap and you whisper threats as I ache to expose my heart. You choke it down with bony hips and forced thrusts until even My stomach is turned out on itself. Scream. I mistake your hate for passion And ask for more.
Untitled
Cera Naccarato
light oranges through the sheet casting magic beams across your face. angular glasses top the tip of your nose bridge while pages of a world you’d escape to in a
heartbeat consume you.
a momentary glance over at me and the orange light slides into irises. I’d like to go swimming in them; occasionally, deep sea with tridents wielded. kisses are waves caressing the sandy beach and I your private island.
House - Haunted Kaci Fankhauser
House. Built 1993. 1 bedroom, 1 bath. Perfect project home. 2 windows, 206 beams. Stairways to the basement and the second floor but four that lead to nowhere, dead ends in the walls. Paint cans litter the attic floor, original exterior unknown. A fixer-upper. Haunted. Slivers of sunlight illuminate the cracks in my windows. Run your hands along my walls You’ll feel where my foundation has buckled, Holes where life met bashed heads and bloodied knuckles. There are footprints scorched into my floorboards A porch sagging under the weight of hours spent soul-searching in the sky Listen. There are echoes of words screamed at the night And promises whispered in the silence. Home. Maps, tacked up like tapestries Bookbags strewed along the floor. A stack of notebooks 21 high Pages dog-eared and marked up With too many drug-store ballpoint pens to count. The candles are still lit And the sky tonight is infinite My rooftop is your park bench. Count the minutes until sunrise.
The Sad Girls We made this zine with our own blood, sweat and tears (mainly tears). Molly Bilker is full of words and sadness and really enjoys naps and poetry. Alex Scoville is always just a step away from becoming the “just a girl trying to make it in the big city� trope. Hattie J. Hayes is an esteemed goofball who has probably written about you in her diary. Kimberly Koerth is a lover of all things dark and creepy, sometimes including herself.
Sad Girl Theory is the proposal that the sadness of girls should be witnessed and re-historicized as an act of resistance, of political protest. Basically, girls being sad has been categorized as this act of passivity, and therefore, discounted from the history of activism. I’m trying to open up the idea that protest doesn’t have to be external to the body; it doesn’t have to be a huge march in the streets, noise, violence, or rupture. There’s a long history of girls who have used their own anguish, their own suffering, as tools for resistance and political agency. Girls’ sadness isn’t quiet, weak, shameful, or dumb: It is active, autonomous, and articulate. It’s a way of fighting back.
Audrey Wollen in Nylon