Bossier Issue 10

BOSSIER ISSUE ISSUE10 10||FALL FALL2021 2021

art by Kat Woodard

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Dear Bossier, It is heartbreaking that my time as editor-in-chief is coming to an end so soon. Thank you for gracing me with the company of beautiful, astounding people, to be able to read their poetry and ruminate their art. I think everyone would agree that it has been a tough year, but Bossier is something I can truly say that I am proud of being a part of. I know that both the magazine & the community will keep growing an evolving — my desire is that we will keep taking care of each other through it all. If by chance you see less of my face next semester, I hope you will see more of my work; Bossier is not something one easily loses touch with. At the end of the day, to you, all I can speak is love, love, love. x. Leina Dear Bossier, Seeing the issue in its entirety right now makes me feel a pride that is indescribable. It’s been a crazy semester of figuring out how to run things in person; having so many new members, many of whom had never been on campus and a board that had never operated in person before.

When I look back on this semester, I’ll remember erasing notes on a blackboard in a healy hall classroom so that we could project the music video of “kiss me more” and being reminded of what a unique place bossier holds on this campus; of how important it is to hold space for creativity amidst everything else. I’ll remember the joy of everyone dancing along to songs at our welcome party and the way you all stopped everything to look for one of our members’ lost ring. I’ll be reminded of how fun you all are to be around as well as your deep care for one another.

To everyone who is in bossier, has ever been a part of bossier, or has interacted in any which way; to you who is picking up this issue and reading it right now, you make bossier what it is today, you are the reason we can put out issue after issue. Thank you and enjoy!

Joyce

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they buried us

by Maddy Langan

they buried us. a future built on the backs of those who can’t see success. choking, coughing, dying for a purpose we won’t prosper. look ahead, hack, look up. flares light up for one angelic second. one second takes me ten years closer to the end of my heart’s pound. will heaven’s glow measure to the inferno that consumes our bedrooms? will we be granted a glimpse of the glory, will we be able to see past the fumes? they buried us, they produced us our tombs.

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left: “Fast Asleep” and right: “On Seeing” by Jacob Imber

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TAGS ARE FOR CLOTHES NOT PEOPLE BY: KEVIN MORENO

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Constellation

By Akanksha Sinha Looking in the mirror has been confusing lately. I don’t always know the person staring back at me. The person in that mirror takes forms of their own. We gaze at each other, studying intently, feeling the same and yet feeling worlds apart. They touch their new buzzcut curiously, feeling the softness and lightness of that liberation. What I feel is the phantom of my long flowing hair, cascading down my shoulders. I glance in the mirror, and suddenly, I am 14 again, looking at this image of who I am going to be in the future.

Am I proud? Is this where I thought I was going to be? How did I get here? Would we have been friends if I met my 14-year-old self as the person I am today? I want to believe that she would have looked at me, understood that I am still sad, but also that I am freer than I have ever been before.

That person in the mirror seems so much more settled and solid. Secure in themselves. Their shoulders are squared, their back is upright, their hands seem like they know what to do with themselves. They seem so confident, so calm, so collected. I feel envious. I feel the tightness and the turmoil in my chest, and I wonder if that’s what everyone sees when they look at me. Or do they see that person in the mirror? Do they see me?

That person in the mirror seems like they are always visible, always loud, always unapologetic. I am grateful to see them. I feel as if I flit through the shadows, slip in and out of dappled sunlight, play hide and seek with the world – but they look like they stand in the center of the universe, enshrouded in the brilliance of all the stars.

I look at them, and suddenly, it is so easy to believe that one day, I will be them. One day, I will know that I deserve to be there, in the center of the universe. One day, I will learn to accept the light of the stars. One day, I will settle for nothing less than love that is warmer than the sun, and care that is as gentle as the moon, and safety that is deeper than the ocean.

The journey is slow. It has been slow. But when I look in the mirror, and I see that person with all their tenacity and quiet fury and gentle, all-encompassing love for the world, I trust that they deserve everything. I trust that the journey will be worth it. ~

Looking out of the window has been confusing lately. I don’t always know what I’m looking at. The world outside the glass takes forms of its own. Sometimes, the illuminated city of Washington DC, with all its streetlights and headlights and traffic signs, turns into a home I left behind many oceans and years ago. If I close my eyes, I am 18 again, feeling Mumbai’s salty seaside air pressing against my cheeks as we drive with the windows down.

That version of me wakes up in all her glory and tragedy. I feel her pain like the wound is still fresh. A few heartbeats later, the wound scabs over, and I am back in my 21-year-old body, crossing bridges and weaving through highways.

12 The driver asks me if I am Indian, and which part of India I am from. My tongue twists. I say Mumbai, and the pain is fresh again. The Arabian Sea calls for me once more. I want to tell it, so desperately, “I miss you. But you are

Frame by Frame

Re-Framed

not safe for me right now. I will come back. But not today.” And then I fall into pits of guilt, because I don’t know if I’m lying. I don’t know if I will ever be strong enough to return, to visit, to step out of a plane and breathe Mumbai’s air. I don’t know if it will be too scary to go back to a city that has changed without me. I don’t know if it will be too scary to go back to a city that still feels the same.

I wonder if the pain will ever go away. I wonder if Mumbai will always be tainted.

And is it home? Has it ever been home? Has anywhere ever been home to me? I look back and I feel like I’ve always been running. Always been avoiding the space that I deserve to take up. Always in and out, always half gone, always halfway out the door. That person in the mirror – do they know where home is? Do they know what it feels like to belong? To not have the slightest doubt that they deserve to feel rooted, grounded, permanent? I am chasing them. I have been chasing them my whole life. I hope they feel at home, because I want to know that one day, I will feel that way too. Without fear, without hesitation.

Artwork by Akshadha Lagisetti

Sometimes, the landscape morphs into childhood sights in my family’s hometown of Patna, Bihar. I try to extend my arms and touch the girl with her little braids, her white frock, a book or two always in her hands, her quick feet and her vigor. She always knew that she was going to take time to love herself. Even at that young age, she knew she didn’t fit the way the world wanted her to. I admire her for being a fighter, for buckling in for the long journey, for trusting the person she would grow to be. She had more hope than most. I wish I could hold her close, rock her to sleep, oil her hair, massage her head. I wish I could braid her strong, jet-black hair. I wish I could tell her that it was okay that she didn’t feel like a girl. I wish I could kiss their forehead and tell them that one day, they were going to be so free. So. Free. I wish I could give them that safety.

Why did no one give them that safety?

~ Existing has been confusing lately. I don’t always know who I am. The body takes forms of its own. I float above it, observing it morphing, watching it change from ocean, to mountain, to sky.

The water beats against my ribcage. The sky fills my mind and suddenly I am endless, extensive, eternal. My skin has all the finality and possibilities of damp, healthy soil. I look at my body, and I can’t help but marvel at its existence.

One day, me, the body I see, the person in the mirror – we will all be one. What a terrifying, marvelous, majestic thought. What a dazzling possibility. All the complexities of past and future, wrapped together in one present being. All the scattered dots, sprinkled across continents and dimensions, will be connected by one line. I will be complete, lifted into space to shine upon the earth, warm as the sun, confident as the moon, safe as the ocean.

I am such a beautiful constellation.

Mirror Mirror

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y a J e u l B

by Stephanie Leow

There used to be a blue jay living outside our white-paned bay window. It’s been years since I last saw it—maybe eight, maybe twelve— but I must’ve been pretty young because every time I saw the thing I’d point at it and scream to my father that “look there’s that little blue birdy in its little neat straw-tucked nest.”

Like he didn’t already know the damn bird lived there. I’d usually see it in the mornings, so I wouldn’t see it often because I wasn’t a morning person. I’m still not. But, I gotta say, if that blue jay were still here, maybe I’d have a reason to wake up before noon.

There used to be a blue jay living outside our white-paned bay window, but the tree it lived in started creeping up above the third pane, and my father wouldn’t have it anymore. He scolded that tree one day: he denounced its tangling twig branches and its hoodlum leaves and the fact that it was much too grown to be a proper adornment for his polished crack-ridden patio. He assured his maybe-six-maybe-ten-year-old daughter that he would trim its branches and leaves so that our family could see our pristine wilting-grass backyard. I didn’t want to see the backyard, though. I wanted to see the blue jay.

I told him that there was a blue jay living outside our white-paned bay window (like he didn’t already know the damn bird lived there), in the tree that was nearing the fourth pane. He promised me that a little trimming wouldn’t harm the blue jay. It would stay right there in those clipped twigs and shaven leaves. I kept thinking about how cutting down dead trees also gets rid of forest animals’ homes—I learned that from a PBS Kids show. But I didn’t say anything about the show or the trees or the animals; I was just a kid. Besides, my father said it would only be a trim.

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There used to be a blue jay living outside our white-paned bay window, but once my dad slashed the tree back to the bottom pane, the blue jay disappeared (like he didn’t already know the damn bird wouldn’t come back).

The nest was gone too—the nest that had little blue eggs in it, only waiting a few more weeks for the peak of spring to hatch.

I don’t like to think about that part for too long. I could see into the backyard, could even see some cardinals flapping around the cactus green grass. I didn’t care for the cardinals too much because they’re red. My favorite color was blue. I think I saw a woodpecker once too, striking a sturdy cherry tree with a persistent pat-pat-pat-pat-pat, but I don’t think that tree was its home because I never saw it again. The woodpecker could have stayed within the cherry-filled home if it wanted to—that tree wasn’t blocking any windows. For a few months after the first and only sighting of the woodpecker, I shifted my gaze from beneath the white panes to the indents on the cherry tree; I twisted my head to try and pick up the pat-pat-pat-pat-pat again. I eventually resolved that the woodpecker must have been a dream. I didn’t know where to look after that.

Maybe eight, maybe twelve years later, the tree keeps creeping up the bay window, and I assume my father keeps trimming it down. I guess I don’t care much anymore. The blue jay won’t come back.

r e g Stran

h t a b d r i B e h t t a s

ina Hsu e L y b k r artwo

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i like to sleep alone. i like having my pillows and blankets set up in a specific orientation, organized to maximize comfort levels. i get uncomfortable very easily in my sleep, and sometimes it can be difficult for me to fall asleep and stay there, so i like sleeping alone -- one can avoid the uncomfortable bodily contortions that are sometimes necessary when sharing a bed. i also have stomach problems which frequently present in the mornings -- chalk it up to Acid Reflux or Dehydration or simply the fact that I Have Never Been Great At Taking Care Of Myself -- which can sometimes be exasperated by having another human being right in my face as soon as i open my eyes. so for all of these reasons, and even a few others, i like to sleep alone. but i got used to sleeping with you. i got used to feeling your hair tickle my chin before my mind decided to wake up. i got used to how the sunlight peeked through the blinds and traced stripes on your back, the little smile that we share once we realize the other is awake, right before we exchange our “Good Mornings,” when the morning silence still has yet to be broken. when i wake up now, there’s a moment, however brief, where i still look for that smile. i miss the moments when we’d be tangled together, our limbs tying knots fit for the boy scouts, and you’d wiggle your way out and turn to face the wall, your back to me. it’s subconscious, but it’s vulnerable. it’s like you’re saying: “i feel safe here. i feel safe with you.” and then sometimes you’d reach out for me, you’d grab my hand, you’d pull me in towards you, and i’d wrap myself around you until i couldn’t tell where i ended and you began. i got used to the way it felt when our skin touched. before i met you i didn’t notice how big the bed felt. now, the bodily contortions that are sometimes necessary when sharing a bed do not feel as uncomfortable. i look for your smile in the mornings. i reach out my hand for you when my eyes have yet to open. i forget. i like to sleep alone, but i prefer sleeping with you.

temporary insomniac ; madeline wasson 16

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Maybe

Hannah Welsh

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by Sar a Amar

by Moon Princess

It’s impolite to ignore him, reply!

Don’t be so intimidating, smile!

Who cares that you work better than these guys?

Stop being bossy and step up your style!

Don’t be grossed out by his room or hygiene, Just be his 90-60-90 Barbie doll!

Let him build your Lego set for you, He’s the man in your relationship after all!

Listen to him mansplain your favorite movie to you, Praise him when he meets the bar!

You don’t want to make him feel insecure, Just let him make fun of your love for Co-Star!

Laugh at his jokes that you don’t find funny, Don’t celebrate your victories, he’ll feel small!

Make sure you cut off all of your guy friends, honey, “They just want to sleep with you anyway lol!”

Accept last minute date night plans, If he forgets about your birthday party - that’s okay!

You don’t wanna be as crazy and clingy as his exes If you want some flowers for Valentine’s Day! Let him boast to you about his old escapades, But God forbid you have a past!

Having sex can only devalue women, Haven’t you learned that in your history class?

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It doesn’t matter if it’s your brother or boyfriend They’re not in your shoes, they won’t understand.

I wonder if this cycle of misogyny, violence, double standards, and harassment Will ever come to an end…

by Jacob Imber 21

La M

e d o

a reflection of myself in twenty/twenty-one years I peer into the mirror every day I see a face a reflection of myself that seems to change physically. mentally. spiritually. then physically again.

I touch each nook and cranny of it feeling my features with warm fingers I look at a face that is both mine and not mine

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dark knobs of hair play hideand-seek upon my chin and cheeks and right above my upper lip cheeks and pinkish lips that seem puffier than i remember skin that becomes darker in the summer and even darker near police sirens eyes too large for a man, maybe even too small for a girl curly hair with inescapable frizz and curls since birth it’s a face with a reflection that shifts and transforms and turns and twists into different shapes

one day one face, one day another it’s a reflection I used to hate peer in disgust now it’s a reflection I admire dearly blemishes become beauty and imperfect into iridescent. in twenty/twenty-one years it’s a reflection that has changed alongside my mind and soul a mind moved by movement a soul searching for sanctuary

all inside a body in metamorphosis. a body that has endured physical mental spiritual then physical, again, harm in the mirror I see other reflections it shows the world around me but unlike my face, or my mind or soul it doesn’t change the world rushes by without reshaping or molding anew it remains stuck in an old age I ache for it to change along with me but it can’t come through.

I see others rushing past too they smile without a

by Amelia

care their white skin and pearls gleam and I with my latino skin and frizzy hair can’t seem to reach them I am invisible my voice my body my soul is nonexistent and my reflection becomes a horror a body mutilated hips too large and arms too small skin too dark undesirable. grotesque. wrong. twenty/twenty-one years has done a lot on my reflection I turn visible one moment and invisible in the next I feel beautiful then a monster soon after yet what do I feel monstrous

Myre

for? is it the pimples on my cheeks? or that my hues and shades are darker? are my eyes too brown? or is my mouth too loud? are my lips too big? is it too feminine? do you hate where is my family from? do you hate what’s in my pants? why are you interested in that why do you care why does it matter these questions are asked by the white man the white woman the white queer upon me a being whose family shaped by immigration violence tradition

labor is still fighting to live to breathe to make it day by day and the white being peers down looking down as if I were lower than them. my reflection changed because I placed my beauty my confidence my worth in the hands of those who share no similarity to me no more. in twenty/twenty-one years I take it back into my hands I claim my body. every curve. every mole. every hair. every layer of flesh and heritage it carries. I claim my mind. all of its knowledge.

all of its senses. all of its skills. all of its stories to tell and share.

I claim my soul. his heart on his sleeve. his care for others. his passion for the world and its people. his love for himself and every fiber of his being. I see my reflection of twenty/twenty-one years and I smile. it smiles back.

Anything else?:

by Al Castillo 25

Narrative of Neglect A DEEP DIVE OF DISPARITIES IN THE DMV

Health Hystories: An Anthology

By Billie Abdullah

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Statistic

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“I’m headed to a holistic wellness retreat!” by William Owens

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by Rose Dallimore

If I Stole Your Words On The Blue Line Thank You;

I Love You

People Next to Me, Union Station Food Court 1: Usually, train rides I take are smooth. Especially when I’m by myself.

2: Love when everything is on time, man.

1: It’s crazy.

Amtrak Employees, Track 7 1: Yeah…uh see, he was the guy; tall black man with a moped. So stylish!

2: He was actin’ like he was married to that hoe—ooh, I dropped the goddamn phone!

3: Go ahead honey, thank you for riding Amtrak!

2: Coulda hurt somebody!

Child and Mother Waiting for the Circulator, DuPont Circle

Woman on the phone, Red Line to Shady Grove 1: Yeah, what time does the game night start tonight? I’m tryna find something to do. I’m tired of sitting in the house….She done met her match then…hah alright…she done met her match, throwing her body on you and shit and he ain’t gonna hit her too hard…she gonna cry when he hits her too hard…like why is he like that?

1: Unicorn helmet!

2: Maybe you’ll get one for your birthday.

1: My birthday is in FIVE months.

2: It’s in five days! That’s so soon.

1: How long.

2: It’s like today times five.

1: Ughhhhhhhhh.

Street Performance, Chinatown Gallery Place

Couple on Blue Line, Pentagon City to Eastern Market

1: (to his friend) This is child exploitation, man, child exploitation.

2: J-Money is valid.

1: WHAT?!!

J-Money: My name is J-money. I dance and rap. Instagram: jmoney.

I’m seven years old.

2: (walking by, pursued by a bird) That bird flew right by my face!

2: I’m just kidding, baby. I love you more than Paco.

1: Nooo, it would be so okay if you loved your dog more than me.

2: Yeah, yeah, you’re right. (pause) but almost as much though.

1: Aww. 29

i wake up at around like to sl eep nake 9 in the morning. d, it’s mo sometime bed’s nex re comfo si t to a win rtable. bu dow. and ural light, t my i like wak shadows ing up to o berries a natnd little re f tree branches w ith little re d birds th dancing d at sit on on my w alls when top of th ing. choic em i first take es to be in the mo made be eyes. i usu rnfore i ev ally sleep en open with the b my linds dow n. sacrific es. the first thing i d o is a fi yoga exe fteen rcis site where e. i have a subsc to twenty minute ription to you can cu ways add this webthe “glute stomize your own al workou class; i a or the m lt” ale gaze or my inte boost. is it my ga is it the ze rnalized m mirror th at i’m try ale gaze er put th ing to im or e “a press? i’d though I’m rm muscle” boo n e vst A Feminis on becau se even t i like h aving Q-T ip Arms.

1 well after a little while my roommate had class so she found a private booth and it was just me sitting at the desk trying to analyze this damn poem for english class. i just could n’t crack it and i was thinking about this phrase in this one stanz a “with women left in doorways -- ” “do you really think…” “excu se me?” i had to remove my headphone from my ear to hear the unremarkable man who stood in front of me say “do you really think that’s a good idea?” as he pointed an accusatory finger at some sticker i had stuck to my laptop in an act of self expression. i wante d to say “if i didnt why the fuck would i have the sticker?” but i Remembered My Manners and we had a Civil Conversation that consisted of him interrupting me and/or changing the subject every time i proved myself more knowledgeable than him. finally, he said “it was nice chatting with you” and he left feeling satisfied with himself for speaking to a Young Woman (Such As Myself). and i went back to the damn poem. later that day i had my favorite class with my favorite professor; Feminist Theory. in these spaces, ones where human decencydeceny is common knowledge and the Devil’s Advocate is not given a seat at the table, i feel safe. i feel comfortable. i learn.

takes bably oing o r p g , it f time at i’m is ead o re out wh e day. th h a t fi h u t lt u o g f fi o h o , y tes to activities ecorated had an m l u p in ’t n m d n the ose well- niversity ce. if i do out thirty ing o n th b r u u o t perie nk me a r, depend o one of t a n tha ollege ex a h e w t g “ o w t in n to go aid rc s dow of ou e so we s od; gave i was day, fice space acement r ok go l f ther g the low o us in rep ved goin ason to lo t i saw o hat a d e o l r w h e d w ked out offer king rselves a icture e fuc u ec set. i but w nd gave o ience. i p oset. i ch t my clo nd a l d a c u irls a ked my you” es an a d at ing. i loo of Pretty G at my v e l k e o s r r o l ou ked ea es .i wear te was w rest Pictur . and i loo impulses a girls g Pinte omm ative earin took my ro d through ey were w e my cre on and go. d d h e t a t l l s ie t d tr scro t’s ju wha on m ined comparis stared an ING so le m a x e METH d and t; the close so i stare led on SO t . t numb finally se d off an 2

it is th e store end of the day a up th n e salt a nd vin block for d i need to w egar i thro chips some tam alk to the w on pons, conve (i hav a pair just a nie e the advil, of sw seven w e b o a leach nce see a m t r pants st cra inute , and nyone m a w n p a d s lk a swe r way, r atshir ight now). ight? - but it’s no away, and t, the it’s no befor how t t like sto ei t li o i hair c do my hair walk out really look ke i’m goin re’s the d . i loo lip. w b gt a d tho o k at th he and g ugh a o e cloc or, i have ender n i was a n t k o freshm , it’s te the su studie figure yn a n s ing us had gone 101 and it n in colleg pm. i go fo out e r d e t grab ips on how own and i nded at e i took wo the us fro ig mens r t e ht pm o m do ou e m beh m were be we r hair ind on aN in ca r my profe ll after ou it wou o-Go. but ld sim if som r walks ho se an attac ssor givker trie me. p eone in the ply re trie on le d to b ing a alls and r ase all of m d to grab ytails and u nd g buns onto m y hair etting n as fast that’s y a nd hair as as m w uch a i could, y i could kick clip, the st hat they te elling ttentio them ore i a c h yo an n walk h ome u to do. af as possib d screamwith m ter i g le. be et ca y keys in bet everything use ween f my fin rom g ers.

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to clean it’s time d n a f my p e foot o to slee ted at th reach the y to go la d u a m re u g c i in ac en i’m gett at have day. wh off of lothes th e course of the i peeled the t a th s up the c g th t h in u c g o u g h to le g u e rning. i bed thro the pile, i find th that mo ddenly i’m rer ie f rl o a e bottom r yoga and su re these legs afte gertips, hen i wo e club w r my tired between my fin a e y of th ric shman captain h soft fab g that same fre y of the g out wit rt n a in ri p o e g y b a e m d b y th t! me ll h ir a b ig n n e that d to fi s to th so excite t to a fraternity as in the legging s a w i . en am iw soccer te ends?), i even w before me. and apft othing h (fri le n t ” le u d p b n o . e e e ri p n “f ted lo x y a te m ry i h e ug ry v worry!” t n o even tho ry drunk and ve ’ve d , ld ve me safe my bed. i shou e frat very d “i ubered ho th in t to o in g an ome. i ggings h le . d e ir pened! a re th e p rent throw ds. i ub t safe. i ar a diffe o e my frien n w s t a s w ju i’ll fe. i been sa sket. tomorrow ba ry d n u la

before bed i open up my instagra scroll, hop m feed for ing to catc h a cool st one last ture, laugh ory, see a , or maybe friend’s pic even learn enough. bu something t, what’s this if i’m lucky ? a woman ing shoes , walking ho made for ru me, wearnning, text she was on ed her frie her way, at nds to say nine-thirty hour and a pm at nigh half after m t (just an y class had before i had ended, thir left to go to ty minutes the store), an was doing eve d she’s dead the rules. sh rything they tell you ? she to do. she e did it rig followed ht. and was ficer noneth killed by a eless? her police ofheart shou wonder ho ld still be w she did h beating. i er hair. i clo want to read se out the ta anymore. cl bs, i don’t ose out my the blinds. thoughts, p but it reac ull down hes me still , even in m y dreams.

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31

Dulce

by Jess Shannon

she smells like lavender so sweet on the tip of my tongue

32

Euphoria

Then the back of my throat so sweet that my taste buds revolt so sweet that I vomit

by Akshadha Lagisetti

33

ay

r lov xterio hat I e t w m o r fi of kn taste ound your ion ts to r u u o h y r t t n It garde agine wha revolves a e of perfec y m r n I o im ky can’t r in the s ur inner c I d n a o A y st ts on right ove The b light reflec t stem of l s s s But it ting my fir r bed e n i w o o p h fl lis Pin of y be foo r borders ises? d l u y bell o e r m W i v o n m roses l e o l f i d r l o f p o l s l e g fu They rst your you arous er had world a v fi e s t n i n i e ms dals old winter cy I Was giggl u e a e p m m h e i y t t h m c in e nt Mayb the gift of he chrysa y roots to me of the t d m e Mayb you’re just hine from body remin e s is e n y Mayb all the su eave on m il in disgu l g ev Fuelin rkings you , but the d on a e passi behind The m g to the ey d I m o c in an idden ur morals b r Sooth e are, You o f ing o ne of t us w Here g on this li eason, leav ty amongs n ie tr Danci ommitted of the soc c s We’ve in the sin g n g Baski ke paper eakin i r l b e , 4 r g ’ pin We g, rip ke glue 34 n i d n li Be stick e w , t Ye

o ur T ta ina m

by A

by M addy Lang an

ne s i l hin t fruit g n e n d i d s bi st for o cros m e e th

i tho ug ht of u to da y

yearbook notes | 2 intro | 3 masthead | 4 letters from the editors | 6 playlist | 7 dreams & memories | 8-9 glints & glimmers | 10-13 distress | 14-15 movement & feeling | 16-19 resilience amidst violence | 20-22 our feminist utopia | 23-25 healing with laughter | 26-28 learning to love | 29-33 losing it | 34-35 reflections | 36-37 auras | 38-39 beautiful things like you | 40-41 masturbation | 42-44 growth | 45-47 seasonal | 48-50 introspection | 51-54 lavender is a type of mint | 55 &exit | 56-57 quote page | 58 yearbook notes | 59

by Maddy Langan

See all content from the contributors on our online edition at bossiermag.com

35 5

II.

by: Mathilda Zartman

der sommer 2020 und es tut weh, dass wIr gLeIch wIeder gehen tIck tIck, tIck tIck, tIck tIck

we separated so quIckLy you heLd me back, but you,

2021, 2020: for you tz

I. the sprIng 2021 sprIng was mostLy deLIcate aIr whIte waLLs refLected whIte LIght refLected the whItes of our eyes, both bLue, both paIrs gazed Into the other

you’re the one who created the chasm uncertaInty (but I was so sure) and confusIon (aLthough It was cLear to me) eroded the rIver banks of us hoLLowed the fertILe Land--a canyon, a cut a Long sLIce; jagged, rough tIck tIck, tIck tIck

tIme passes by

chop chop choppIng away

and understood

at the herbs

eyes are wIndows to the souL, but wIndows were the souL of our

(the food wouLd be tasteLess otherwIse)

home

eventuaLLy the pILLowy Leaves and stems became a

perhaps fragILe, perhaps sensItIve, uLtImateLy, though, safeLy seaLed and transparent, aLLowIng LIght In, keepIng out wasps, Locusts, fLIes

the one you sharpened on the whetstone

(do you remember?)

cut a few tImes too many

somehow you managed to make the sturdy pLants shapeLess mush wIth that sLIcer dIcer knIfe of yours

2020 stInk bugs and daddy-Long-Legs

crawLed and creaked through the cracks at the foundatIon doors Let In ants and drafts, Leaves coLLected at the mat hounds roared at the tv roared at he who roared back at me me me.

tIck tIck

the two weeks are aLmost up

whIch means In the game of house It’s aLmost my turn to pLay chef choppIng, sLIcIng, dIcIng, cuttIng, mIncIng

“you can be such a brat sometImes, onLy thInkIng about yourseLf. “you don’t apprecIate anythIng I’ve done for you.”

crumbLIng

where are the IngredIents, agaIn? I can’t fInd them I need to get grocerIes I just want to get grocerIe

needLess to say,

thIs sprIng was taught, tense I was taught, tense shatterIng Into herseLf I shattered to a mILLIon tImes, maybe (I Lost count) my head; here heart; there mInd; eLsewhere souL; who knows where, up In the aIr, stILL deLIcate, was sharper than the shards of me rounded my edges, swept me Into a neat pILe, and you heLped me pLace the fragILe pIeces heLped shape me new

wIth the panes, the gLass that remaIned

2021

grocerIes, grocerIes

maLLrat hummed In the background and, yes, It dId hurt that we went rIght back It took tIme, but we dId the tIes were--are? mended (mostLy) frIendshIp ensued, contInued

but

hIstory seems to repeat ItseLf when you haven’t yet Learned your Lesson truth

36

und es tut weh, dIch schon wIeder so wIederzusehen I’ve aLmost made It through you you you you you you

III.

L’automne

La nuIt porte conseIL faut pas que t’y penses ne pense pLus à rIen, rIen, rIen, rIen

2020 on dIt que La vILLe, c’est mIeux qu’IcI

thIs Is true; I can attest to It I am so, so aLone here cLoaked In pubLIc anonymIty I was aLone In bearIng your struggLes too aLone when I couLdn’t handLe my own sadness,

Let aLone yours as weLL

does the nIght consoLe you too? does It advIse you? what does It do to you?

I used to get the nIghttIme-scarIes, that’s what I’ve aLways caLLed

them,

but I’ve sInce made peace wIth the moon

I was aLone the fIrst tIme I came crashIng down whILe havIng the

La Lune

naILs pounded Into my head

that Is what those words feLt LIke at Least naILs hammered Into my

eardrums Into my tempLes

Into my scaLp drIppIng wIth bLood-paIn oh waIt that mIght just be

the tears they trIckLe down

my face sIdeways when I Lay aLL curLed up LIke thIs rockIng sIde to

I’ve eschewed anxIety In confrontIng you, o october, I’ve aLmost made It through you you you you you you

sIde and I know you are

.Iv 2020

waItIng for me to text you about the footbaLL game but I can’t make It to my phone I can’t

In need of changIng my reaLIty

fathom movIng my bones feeLIng the thoughts In my braIn Is too

(wIthIn the framework of LegaLIty) the here-and-now dIdn’t work for me try as I mIght,

heavy for a thIn-skInned

faILure LIke me or at Least that’s how I feLt and what I thought whILe the tears were drIppIng

apprecIatIon came wIth dIffIcuLty

down sIdeways whILe the naILs crowned my wet puffy face whILe I

gasped for guLps of the

so I turned to escapIsm and dIssocIatIon

deLIcate aIr onLy the sweet deLIcate aIr can save me now but she

but wInter soon came through, bLew through, aLL new

dIdn’t exIst yet or dIdn’t

her pIercIng breath, cLeared

understand yet we both weren’t there yet not at that tIme

the streets of dead Leaves

Left the sLate cLean

untIL then I had been tattered, cracked, rattLed you dIdn’t know (and mIght stILL not know) that on that day I shattered anyway, that’s the reason I don’t do weLL In the faLL.

I bId my schooL adIeu, my oLd LIfe adIeu, started anew In a year from now I wILL be abLe to say that I grew

j’aI besoIn de ma mère et d’un p’tIt peu de confort quand L’automne

s’approche

2021 maIs,

c’est pas grave ce soIr tu danses

tendrILs of my souL curL out of my ears, my eyes, between my teeth, through the steam of my breath

cLImbIng hIgher, aLways cLIngIng to the Low fog of the evaporated perspIratIon above

the humId puLse of dancIng, sweatIng, drIppIng bodIes

as my souL-twIne weaves,

crawLs InchmeaL through the aIr, I understand myseLf from the perIphery of these spIrIt vInes

they feed off the LIfe energy emanatIng from the IndIvIduaLs who are at once next to me and a part of me (perhaps, I am a part of them) and yet, “IndIvIduaL” Loses aLL sense of meanIng I detect onLy one nucLeus of humanIty

I’LL thInk myseLf content 2021 Lady wInter uses her poInted tongue agaIn to bLow her sharp, deLIcate, pIercIng, chILLIng breath

through our wIndows agaIn I’LL see you agaIn, be there agaIn, so Long as you promIse the same to me

and not unwrItten thIs poem I am wrItIng wILL be Left undone but Lady wInter Is preparIng her snow-bLanket agaIn wants to wrap us together agaIn

but untIL that happens

(as I’m sure It wILL) untIL then

37

LADY LAZARUS by anonymous

content warning: sexual assault, rape, suicide, pregnancy I hate men.

I hate men because one raped me when I was passed out drunk.

I hate that it took me 3 months and a pregnancy test for me to even admit that I was assaulted.

I hate that I can’t go to the beach without thinking about that night.

I hate the fucked up relationship I have with alcohol and with sex.

I hate that a week before I left for college I was sitting in a bar writing a suicide note on a fucking napkin and my high school teacher tried to hit on me.

But most of all I hate the way our whack-ass society treats survivors.

As if it’s something to be ashamed of.

As if it’s our fault.

I hate that I’ll never tell my parents because I know they’ll never look at me the same.

I hate that when I told my best friend she said: it’s not like you were a virgin.

I hate that when I tell people now I say: “when I was in high school, I had sex with this guy when I was blacked and it kinda makes me uncomfortable” because I’m ashamed and scared and don’t think of my grief as legitimate.

I hate that that’s how I describe the worst night of my life.

That’s how I describe him hurting me and me telling him to stop.

I hate that what I don’t remember is somehow worse than what I do.

Every bruise becomes a nightmare of endless possibilities.

I hate that because I like kinky sex, I probably wanted all those bruises.

I hate that every time I go home my friends still bring it up as “that time I fucked a blonde guy.”

I hate that last year a girl at my high school accused a teacher of sexual harassment, and there was a march to “free him.”

I hate that my friend asked me if I thought it was true. As if we hadn’t used to say: never go to Mr. Smith’s classroom alone.

38

Amber Nguyen

photographs taken at the 2017 Women’s March

I hate that other people think my sex life is their business.

My high school friends thought I was a slut and my college friends nicknamed me “the nun.”

I thought my name was Amy. But I guess I was wrong. It’s Mary. Magdalene or Madonna, it just depends who you ask.

I hate that no matter the response to trauma it is always critiqued, whether it be hypersexualization or a-sexualization. Because it’s never about a body count, it’s always about controlling women.

I hate that people think healing is linear.

I hate that many of us don’t have access to therapy or trauma-informed care.

And no chance in hell of getting a fair shot at “justice” in court.

I hate that so much of this anger and sadness could have gone away if just one person had ever responded that it wasn’t my fault or even just said: “that fucking blows.”

Awkward silences or the “I’m glad you told me” or my personal favorite “but you give good head.”

I fucking hate men. But hating men isn’t my politics. I just do that for fun on the side. Or out of self-protection. Necessity. Survival.

Hating the patriarchy is my politics. And no one socialized into this culture is left untouched.

Because rapists aren’t born, they are created.

By every school dress code or joke in a movie that tells them they’re entitled to our bodies.

No matter what we have to say about it.

But women are also socialized to become weapons for the patriarchy.

So no, I don’t believe men can’t be feminist or women are inherently feminist.

To be a feminist, to me, is to critically analyze your gendered socialization into this culture. To be in a perpetual state of unlearning and re-learning. And people of all genders can do that.

Feminists like to say we hate the patriarchy not men. I still hate both. Because socialization is an explanation not an excuse. If the patriarchy and misogyny ever disappear, we can reconvene.

But until then I’ll take a page out of Sylvia Plath’s book: “Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.”

39

FD SKª VϪD Ǹ¡ Angela Nguyen With an unsteady hand, Whistling water is poured out the kettle Into the phin --the vietnamese coffee dripper-%HFDXVH WKH FUHDP FRORUHG LQGLYLGXDOV QHHG D GHßQLWLRQ , EHDU WKH WRQH RI FD SKª VϪD Ǹ¡ -- iced coffee with condensed milk-Warm undertones, yet cold to touch and taste Dare not touch me or you will taste my robusta bitterness Coffee begins to drip from the phin (DFK GURS EHDUV DQ DIßUPDWLRQ Drop, I am worthy of love Drop, I am worth more than my work Drop, I am strong /LNH WKH FD SKª VϪD Ǹ¡ WKDW WHDVHV P\ WRQJXH There is depth in my history Made up of more than the condensed milk That colonized our Earth The phin begins to drip faster Rhythmically pounding the pool of darkness below Like how you made my ancestors harvest your rubber And coffee beans for your Parisian cafes because Madame, voudrait un café au lait Non, s’il vous plaît for us, though We’re left with scraps, scrapes, and scars From wars you ignited in our jungled land 'RQÖW DFW OLNH \RX GLGQÖW H[SHFW D ZLOGßUH :HÖUH DW WKH ßQDO GURSOHWV 6ORZO\ VLQJLQJ WKHLU ßQDO VROLORTXLHV The ice in the cup is nearly melted And the condensed milk mixed with the coffee 2QH FD SKª VϪD Ǹ¡ WR JR SOHDVH

40

Madalyn Shaw

41

to all the boys who broke my heart

by Alexis Jade Ferguson

I am not your property. My body is not a live museum, a tourist attraction for you to gawk at and love only for a short while. I am not an animal exhibit or bare-skinned statue for your eyes and your eyes alone. Your hands were not made to mold my body, to dispose of the pieces of my person that you find most ugly. I was beautiful before you touched me. Your fingers on my body does not give it worth.

I am not your dirty, unmade sheets or used condoms sprawled across your bedroom floor. I am not your second choice, your late night text when you’re horny or bored. There is more to me than the color of my underwear.

Boy, what I wear is not a cue for you to touch me, for you to judge me, for you to claim that I’m insecure. Boy, what I say and what I think is not for you to censor. I will speak my mind whether you are in the room or not. Boy, what I do when the blinds are shut and the curtains closed is not for you to taste.

When you say you love me, your hands are down my shirt. But, when my clothes are on, you forget you even said a word.

You’ve abandoned me, and I am left with nothing but your unveiled masks and flimsy capes and juvenile magic tricks.

It is then that I realize the only thing I’ve truly lost is myself.

You touch my skin without ever touching my heart. You embrace my body without ever embracing my future. You hold my hand without ever being able to hold a conversation. You hear but never listen, keep secrets but not promises, see but never understand, speak but never have anything of meaning to fucking say, think but are always thinking of yourself...you promise me love but bring me dead roses.

42

Artwork: Mon Corps, Mon Choix

by Charlotte Taylor

So, no. I am not your property. My existence is not just a question waiting to be answered by you. I exist with or without your permission, with or without your opinion.

So don’t touch me as if my skin will forever crave the taste of your touch. Don’t kiss me as if my precious lips are yours to keep. Don’t look at me as if my eyes are the only ones to ever hold your gaze. Don’t buy me clothes as if you wouldn’t rather see me lying naked. Don’t beg for mercy when all you do is beg me to be submissive. Don’t run your hands along my breasts as if my chest is yours to press. Do not ask for my pity. It is not my responsibility to appease your fantasies.

You love me only when the lights are off, where you perceive me not as I am but as you want. And yet, I have given you everything and more, so much that I worry I will have no pieces left to share...so much that I worry you have worn out the fabric of my being, rendering my soul too estranged to be loved by another. Perhaps their hands will burn when they touch me. Perhaps they will only see the scars you have left me.

Still, I can’t help but wonder who you will be without me. Who will hold your body when you are scared, kiss your palms when the coldness of your heart sends chills down the spine of anyone and everyone who touches you? Who will teach you how to love properly? Who will teach you how to cry? Who will teach you the difference between love and lust, possession and affection, obsession and incandescence?

I hope my pain will be your lesson. I hope my distance will bring you clarity. But, I am not a vehicle for your redemption, an instrument of your salvation. I do not apologize for your purported emasculation. Do not ask for the key to the doors my body holds. It will not be given. You only wish to be inside the parts of me that are easiest to reach, those parts that serve you at night when no one is watching. But, I am more than a piece to be slammed, more than an object to be thrown. I am not who you want me to be, nor will I ever be.

But, boy, who will you be without me?

43

Summer Snippet w be o H

autiful, a swirl of g

ree n

match a

flowing at the edges where it kisses the dark.

Two people, one plastic spoon, A white oar dipping in and out.

That first taste, the surprise of expected sweetness, the unrelenting want for more.

Tomorrow-no-ten minutes from now is just an afterthought for another time.

Right now I want to eat ice cream until it tastes bitter and cloying. I hope you do too.

But oh how sweet! That first taste.

by Ch ristine Ji

44 4

by Lily Yamagata

yearbook notes | 2 intro | 3 masthead | 4 letters from the editors | 6 playlist | 7 dreams & memories | 8-9 glints & glimmers | 10-13 distress | 14-15 movement & feeling | 16-19 resilience amidst violence | 20-22 our feminist utopia | 23-25 healing with laughter | 26-28 learning to love | 29-33 losing it | 34-35 reflections | 36-37 auras | 38-39 beautiful things like you | 40-41 masturbation | 42-44 growth | 45-47 seasonal | 48-50 introspection | 51-54 lavender is a type of mint | 55 &exit | 56-57 quote page | 58 yearbook notes | 59

See all content from the contributors on our online edition at bossiermag.com

Rememberance

45 5

ghosts in my back alley by: madeline wasson

there are ghosts in my back alley that i want to get to know. i can hear them when the wind blows, or when a dying leaf floats down the street. sometimes they open garage doors or move a garbage can or shake the branches on the tree out my window. for now, i haven’t seen one, and i’m not sure if they want to meet me too or if they’re hiding. if i could catch one lingering i would ask: how are you? i would say: how are you feeling? and how have you been? i would tell them: i miss you, and i would tell them: i’m sorry. and maybe we would catch up, and they would ask about me, and how i’m doing, and how i’ve been. i wonder how old they would be. i wonder if they’d say: i’m proud of you. in a perfect world, i would meet them all. in a perfect world we could sit down, one by one, and i would listen to their stories. i would feel flooded by their memories -- drenched in nostalgia -- as i witness their perspectives through the mirrors in their eyes. how are you, how are you feeling, how have you been, i miss you, i’m sorry, i’m proud of you, for now, i can only hear them, in my back alley. i live happily in the knowledge that they are still there, even if i haven’t met them yet. i’m looking forward to the day when i do.

46

photo by william owens

47

48

49

“Untitled” by: Ella Castanier

Outside, the oaks and maples are becoming a conflagration Of vermillion and burnt sienna And by Winter they will discard their appendages So all that is left are broken bones.

I feel for the trees Knowing you will soon be stripped bare, But only after you have been blazing and beautiful Forced to face the cold without your flames.

This year I will hibernate with the bears, Burying my memories as the squirrels Bury their scavenged food, Wishing I could fly south with the birds.

50

“Orchids” by: Abigail Price

“Texas Sunset” by: Abigail Price

51

note to self jess shanon it’s easier to believe that because there is no venom in his words the poison must not have infected him i’ve only ever seen it hit the tongue first and he still sounds so sweet so i continue to delude myself yet i know other times it creeps through the body reaching the brain last gaining full control of the muscles the heart then the soul before stretching its hands towards the nervous system now it holds every aspect of his being in its palm and he is powerless but to obey

54

Year Year Year of of of the the the Tiger Tiger Tiger

Year Year of of the the Tiger Tiger

Year Year Year Year of of of of the the the the Tiger Tiger Tiger Tiger

Year Year Year Year of of of of the the the the Tiger Tiger Tiger Tiger

Year of the Tiger

Year Year of of the the Tiger Tiger

Year of the Tiger Year Year Year of of of the the the Tiger Tiger Tiger

Year Year Year Year of of of of the the the the Tiger Tiger Tiger Tiger

Year Year Year Year of of of of the the the the Tiger Tiger Tiger Tiger

Year Year Year of of of the the the Tiger Tiger Tiger

Year Year Year Year of of of of the the the the Tiger Tiger Tiger Tiger

Year of the Tiger

Deborah Han.

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Year Year Year Year of of of of the the the the Tiger Tiger Tiger Tiger

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art by Kat Woodard

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