Gauge Magazine SS22: Disembodiment

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CONTENTS Letters from the Editors...................................................4 Nightmare Paralysis..............................................,,.........6 Taken Apart....................................................................10 Kept Away......................................................................12 The Birth of Venus..........................................................18 Vanity Trifold................................................................22 [titleworking]...............................................................24 bodied-sick....................................................................30 Whole Nixie...................................................................32 In Search of a Gentle Storyteller.....................................34 i wanna be a witch...........................................................38 I Think It’s Memory Loss.................................................40 One O’Clock..................................................................42 Midnight Zone...............................................................44 All the Windows Are Fogged Up........................................50 Psychedelic Mania..........................................................52 Like Candy.....................................................................62 Apparitions....................................................................64 Evening Primrose............................................................70 The Corruption..............................................................71 Vertebrae.......................................................................74 Lost in the Crowd..........................................................76 Stockholm Syndrome.......................................................78 Pursuit of Nothing.........................................................79 Ignite Her.....................................................................80

Gauge Staff Co-Editors-in-Chief Will Percarpio Paulina Subia Gale Melendez Staff Writers Zelda Cab Priscilla Beltran O Barton Joe Meloa Gabriel Vasquez Fiction Reader/Editors Connor Gibson Haley Souders Samantha Parker Sisel Gelman Poetry Reader/Editors Nicole Emerald Smith Hadera McKay Nonfiction Reader/Editors Ana Hein Kait Joyner Zoe Rivera Photography Director Jenna Triest Photography Hanlin Yuan Makeup Director Jennie Greco Layout/Design Director Rifka Handelman Designer Rebecca Calvar Social Media Team Linh Luong

LETTERS FROM THE EDITORS Gauge was once a dominant literary magazine at Emerson, but COVID-19 cut its life short. We’ve rebuilt this semester, reviving a dead organization. Maybe that should’ve been the theme: Reconstruction, but haven’t we all heard enough of rebuilding throughout the pandemic? So amid the chaotic zoom calls over winter break, we landed on Disembodiment. The four of us: Anna, Paulina, Gale, and I, sat in our rooms, brainstorming a theme that people could relate to. Or use it as an escape. It stirs up so many emotions translating the difficulties of being in your body during the past two years.

Disembodiment: you leave your physical body, dissociating from yourself in a way that feels ethereal or nightmarish. It’s a whirlwind experience. Just like our experience as editors, brought together to run a magazine. In a matter of weeks, we went from having meaningless titles to figuring out the future of Gauge, going outside ourselves to plan and construct a magazine that will live on.

Looking back at the semester, there have been so many visually stunning shoots, such as “Apparition” and “Midnight Zone,” shifting the idea of what it means to be inside yourself. Not only that, but the submissions from all the talented writers brought the magazine to life, telling their stories and letting us share them. This semester has been about us leaving our comfort zones, trying to remember what it’s like to leave this physical world for just a moment, worry falling off our shoulders. For a moment, it’s fun. Weightless. It’s Disembodiment.

This SS22 issue is for everyone who wants to escape and live outside themselves for just a brief moment. To feel more than what the world has given us with constant apocalyptic events. It also serves as a reminder of our pasts, the horrors we’ve endured, and how we healed. Those ghosts still linger around the corner, especially in our artwork.

Thank you to everyone who helped Gauge find its place in the Emerson community. Hopefully, you can read this magazine and find some piece that relates to you.

Will Percarpio

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O readers, Cliches are usually gross, but I’ll start off with a quote anyway: “Kiss it goodbye, the body / that was once yours. / It’s off and running, / it’s rolled in furs, it’s dancing / or bleeding out in a meadow.” – Margaret Atwood, “Shadow”, Dearly. I wonder, reader: have you ever felt your body a sack of flesh & sinews that somehow did not feel attached to you?

Maybe not in quite that way, or maybe not at all, but either way; it is this detached & looming space between body & mind that drew me as an editor to the theme of this Gauge issue. With the isolating paranoia & dread that comes as a second-hand gift to our current pandemic; for me at least, there were moments during the past few months where feelings of suspension & disconnection had reached their full peak. So I did the only thing I knew & turned to writing & reading the work of others who too have battled with the same feelings I am, & that I’m sure many of you are too.

With these feelings in chest, I felt myself opportunistic to do something regarding this with my fresh position at Gauge. I felt that by steeping this issue in the theme of disembodiment, these difficult feelings of isolation many of us share in feeling but not in speaking would find an audience. In doing so, I too hope they serve as a sort-of apotropaic effort in protecting us from just the thistled subjects the contributors to this issue have worked so hard to make a rendition of. And if for you, the contents fails at doing that, well: at least I hope you had fun consuming it.

Peace, Erik / Gale Melendez.

Out-of-body experiences. Detachment from reality. Paralyzing fear and confusion. These are some of the visceral feelings that I associate with this semester’s theme of ‘disembodiment,’ a term that holds so much weight that it can be interpreted in a multitude of ways.We were drawn to this theme because we wanted our team to have a broad spectrum from which they could take inspiration from, honing into a communal ‘disembodied’ state that brought their creativity together. In this strange, twisted, unpredictable world we find ourselves in, art withstands the test of time. We read as a form of escapism; we write as a form of therapy; and we draw and take photographs to capture and revisit moments in time.

My goal with Gauge was to establish a space allowing creatives to utilize their own forms of artistic expression in a therapeutic, multi-faceted way. I am so proud of the talent displayed in this semester’s issue, and am honored to play a small part in Gauge’s mission. A special thank you to Professor Kyanna Sutton, our advisor, who championed Gauge from the beginning. I hope you enjoy ‘Disembodiment’ as much as I do.

Paulina Subia

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Joe Meola

NI G H T MARE PA R A LYS IS Prelude: Day 1

Lately I have been having trouble trying to sleep, so I am starting this journal to detail my experiences in hopes of finally being able to get a good night’s sleep. At times, I find myself incredibly restless while also exhausted, and sometimes I find myself unable to move, as if some strange, invisible force is holding me down to my bed. I also see shit that I cannot fully describe or comprehend, like living shadows lurking in every corner of my room. I feel almost embarrassed to write this, like I’m some dumb fucking kid scared of the monsters in his closet or under his bed, but I don’t care. Hopefully soon I can have a peaceful sleep, now that I’ve written some of my feelings down.

Night 1 I lay in my bed after a long, tiring day. So many classes, so many exams, all I want right now is a decent sleep. I know that won’t happen. I turn off my light, tuck myself into bed, and shut my eyes in a pitiful attempt to fall asleep. An hour passes, and I am still awake; I toss and turn in hopes of finding myself a more comfortable position, but to no avail. Despite being in my bed alone in my pitch-black room, I can feel the presence of another looming about. I try to lift myself up to look around my room but I cannot; I have become immobile, paralyzed almost. I have lost all feeling from my neck down; the only thing I feel now is an inexplicable sense of dread and terror that flows throughout my limp body. My eyes dart back and forth across the room. Somehow, it feels as if I am able to survey the entirety of my room while also being completely unable to comprehend my surroundings. Shadows swirl around me as if they themselves are living beings. I definitely will not be getting any sleep tonight.

Night 2 I once again find myself in desperate need of rest after a long day of classes. I have an ungodly amount of exams tomorrow; if I don’t sleep, I probably won’t be able to function tomorrow or pass them. An eerie chill runs down my spine as I lay down and wrap myself in the covers, swaddled like the helpless goddamn baby I feel like right now. After a couple of hours, I at last find myself drifting into a deep sleep; finally, my troubles are over! I celebrate too soon. Suddenly, I am jolted awake; it feels as if I have just fallen down from a high building. As I awaken in a daze, I peer over in the general direction of the white door connecting my room to the outside hallway. It is open slightly, providing the most minuscule view of the dark hallway beyond. As I gaze into the black, narrow abyss, I swear to god I see something move. The shadowy figure moves closer and closer until it is standing right in front of the opening of my door. I cannot make out any distinct features–I don’t even know if it has a face–but I can still feel it watching me, and it continues to watch me as night slowly turns to morning.

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art by Wyatt Harrah

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Night 36 It has been over a month, and still I find myself unable to get a full night’s sleep. I have tried everything from meditation to prescription meds to hypnosis, but I still cannot sleep. I now find myself dreading the time of the evening in which I must go to bed. My experiences continuously impact how I function on a day-to-day basis. I am now failing all my classes, and I had to quit the track and field team because my body simply doesn’t have enough energy to participate. I haven’t talked to or hung out with my friends in weeks, and my boyfriend just broke up with me; I’ve become too tired, paranoid, and depressed for anyone to want anything to do with me. My Calculus teacher, Mr. Richards, who I’ve known for about two years now, has asked me to meet with him after school.

He’s worried about me, he says, all my teachers are. I shrug him off. I just wanna sleep. As I lay in my bed, I find myself unable to move, once again unable to control my own body. It feels like I’m not even there, like I’m watching some other poor bastard’s futile attempt at falling asleep. My feelingless body is held still by an invisible force–like an unseen, shadowy shackle–as the darkness of my room swirls around me like a living being. I notice that my bedroom door is open ever so slightly again, once again creating a narrow window to the darkened hallway. As I stare into the slender void, I notice the mysterious figure I have felt and seen there a million times before, lurking in shadowy nothingness, watching me as I lay helplessly, not able to control my pathetic body. It only occasionally appears to me at night, but as I go about my day, I can feel it waiting for me. I blink–my eyes are the only parts of my body I can will myself to move–and in an instant my ghoulish stalker is no longer lurking behind the gap in the doorway. Rather, the dark creature is standing over my bed! I finally get a solid look at the thing, and yet its features still seem hazy. It has a face but no head; there are a pair of eyes and a mouth on its bare torso. It has four limbs, but all are legs, and it is completely naked with no visible genitals. It is a weird sight for sure, but in my current state, it is utterly terrifying. The monstrosity’s pale, lifeless chest-eyes stare down at me menacingly, and the cracked red lips on its abdomen form into a crooked smile. It slowly crawls back and forth around my bed like some fleshy centipede, and its torso inhumanly contorts into a new position with every footstep. As the sinister presence looms above me, all I can do is weep quietly as I wait for this god-forsaken night to come to an end.

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Night 97 More than three months have passed since my last real sleep. I am still unable to function at school, and now no one bothers talking to me. I’ve noticed that my ex has started dating my former best friend; real nice. Maybe this part of my life is the real nightmare? As I lay in my bed, I cannot even fully comprehend my surroundings, not even the four walls I have rested within for my entire life.

As I lay in my perpetual state of unrest, I look up to see my old, grotesque friend once again staring down upon me with its dead eyes and blistery grin. Since my first encounter with the being, I have grown accustomed to its unsettling, bizarre presence; it’s not like I can jump out of bed and run away, after all. I lock eyes with the morbid figure, which is dangling from my ceiling fan above my bed by its leglike appendages; it creepily writhes, wriggles, and crawls about its vantage point, not breaking eye contact with me. Despite the overall familiarity, a sense of overwhelming terror and dread still courses throughout my still, restless body; I still don’t know what this thing may be capable of. Suddenly, a new feeling fills my body, as I feel a tight, inhuman grip around my throat. This is not the same mysterious, invisible immobility that I have felt countless times before; this time it is my horrific visitor that is holding me down. My morbidly inhuman house guest is now on top of me, its misshapen limbs contorted around my legs and neck. Is this how it all finally ends? I want to fight back but my body is completely immobile; I am a helpless onlooker of my own demise. If I finally go to sleep, is the cost never waking up again?

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T a

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e My sentiments Like phantom limbs

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Dangle from my body, I cannot feel.

The paralysis of love I have learned to unhear

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Like a distant whisper, For my head is removed from my body And my shattered consciousness waters my garden Of unknowing.

My past has tainted my present And poisoned my future and I wonder If my memories have doomed me.

If to feel nothing at all Will save me from this fate, I will dismember myself, Bone by aching bone, And rebuild a skeleton From scratch.

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p a r t

To make room for the flowers to grow

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Direction: Jennie Greco and Will Percarpio Photography: Jenna Triest Style: Will Percarpio Makeup: Jennie Greco Model: Jennie Greco

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I hate myself.

Three words that radiate against the empty walls of my brain, And through the vaulted ceilings of my mind.

You’re atrocious My twin in the mirror says, Hideous.

Ugly.

Fat.

Maybe I am, Maybe you’re right, My twin glares at me through the mirrored barrier between us Into the insecure navel of my brain I don’t feel too well.

I think I’ll stay home tonight, I should just lay in bed.

As my top sheet and duvet swallow me whole, Hiding my body from anyone’s site of vision, My twin in the mirror gives me a nod of approval I hate myself And as my twin reminds me, I should But wait…

No, no, no This isn’t real You may be my twin, But why should you have the power, You’re stuck behind glass Trapped in the mirror dimension I’m here in person, And I love the way I look in the mirror I want to go out and live with my friends And I will!

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Kept Away Jennie Greco

….

You may be in the real world But no matter what reflection you see, I will always be there Remember this, You hate yourself And no matter how hard you try to hide it You always will.

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Direction: Jennie Greco and Will Percarpio Photography: Jenna Triest Style: Will Percarpio Makeup: Jennie Greco Model: Jennie Greco

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Gabriella Pérez

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T h o e f B V e ir n t u h s

The rain came down hard and loud, as if it was a warning sign that I was overpacking six outfits for a four-day trip, but I was going to Florence. Nothing was going to stop me from looking hhe Birth of Venusot. The Italian men were going to love it!

As I waited for the bus, the wind tried to dance with my petite frame, spinning my vision like the ballerina I once was. Thankfully, my backpack full of my ‘essentials’ kept me grounded. Thank God I packed all those shoes.

My classmates and I watched the coach bus struggle up the curvy Swiss hills, standing awkwardly, asking each other if we should just go down to make the driver’s life easier. These roads are designed for small European cars and bikes; not a block of wood on wheels. When the bus got to the top of the hill its doors opened like the gates of heaven. My classmates ran to the bus with a sense of hunger. I shuffled, carefully, not wanting to shock my body. The dirty street water spat at the cuff of my bell-bottoms, staining the innocent blue wash with its forced bile.

I took my seat quickly, close to the two friends I had, eager to continue our conversation surrounding the number of sexy Italian men we would meet within the next four days. But my seat was taken by the intrusive thoughts in my head; they sat in the rows surrounding me like the mean girls I imagined them to be. For the next four hours, I tried to ignore the inner mean girls. I sat uncomfortably, pretending to admire the Swiss Alps while it showed off its curvaceous hips in a cocky manner, but the thoughts curled around my seat, whispering rumors and lies. They’re gonna notice your eating habits. Watch, she is gonna order fruit and pretend to be healthy. How much do you wanna bet she’s gonna gain weight?

Looking out the window, the dark, heavy clouds slowly lifted, becoming thin and airy like my vision as we drove further away from Switzerland and into Italy. I was excited to get out of Switzerland. I wasn’t planning on spending my semester abroad amid a pandemic, nor was I planning on letting my little habit get this out of control, but I’m only nineteen years old and one thing I’ve learned is that you can’t win ‘em all.

The bus soon pulled into Florence. The late October air complimented the renaissance architecture, providing a fresh coat of rusted orange paint with its sunbeam paint strokes. My friends and I agreed to not even mention Lugano or Franklin, the town and school we were residing in for the semester. Our focus was to have fun, look at art, and meet cute Italian boys. Everyone eagerly ran off the bus to meet our professor who was waiting for us outside our hotel. As I slowly matched their excitement, my legs wobbled. With excitement? Yes. Excitement.

“So! Who’s hungry?! You all were on that bus for almost five hours!” exclaimed the professor.

I felt my body freeze. Only my eyes moved, anxiously scanning the room and everyone around me. Studying the bodies around me, the ones that brought yummy snacks for the rides. I couldn’t fathom their eagerness to eat again. H U N G R Y. Each letter stuck to my brain like gum and the more I tried to rip it off the stickier they got. My eyes darted at the mirror in the hotel lobby, lasing my body up and down, looking for one thing out of place. I wasn’t planning on eating until dinner today. At that moment I realized I hadn’t eaten since Thursday. It was Monday.

We dropped off our luggage in our room, and all went to lunch where we ordered loads of pasta.

It felt like the third act of a ballet; a scene of broken hearts and pain, but gracefully masked behind the beauty of the craft. I analyzed everyone as they twirled spaghetti around their forks. They gracefully danced the evening away with their meals.

How do they make it look so natural? I looked at my plate, my hand trembling as I picked up my fork and attempted a pirouette with the pasta.

Awkwardly landing in my mouth, my eyes began to well up as I chewed, c h e w e d, C H E W E D, and swallowed.

We spent the rest of our day walking endlessly around the city; the professor kept stopping to explain the smallest detail about every building while my friends and I pretended to be interested, while we giggled and eye flirted with the Italian men who walked by us. I always gave them a soft wave and Ciao as I floated by. Oh, how they loved me.

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The next morning we were asked to be downstairs in the lobby by 8:00 a.m. for breakfast.

The first challenge of the day. The clock batted its eyes, reading 7:36 a.m. I was in the bathroom, entranced by the sight in the mirror. I stared at the foggy glass, falling into a hypnotic state while I stood naked in front of the mirror. My wet hair had begun to form small ringlets as it laid on top of my boyish chest. I was terrified. Who was this stranger I was staring at? I softly grazed my fingers down my chest, starting at my collar bones and over each rib. They looked so delicate. I moved slowly, fearing that I would accidentally break them through the skin.

BLINK. 7:49 a.m.

I rubbed the bones protruding out of my hips, enraptured by the feeling of my bones through my skin. Is this what Eve felt when God created her?

Gifted the bones of Adam. Or was I Lilith? Created from the same clay, but I slowly ruined what was given to me. Knowing that when I returned home, my creators would be furious at what I have done to myself. Who have I become?

“Hey, Gab! Are you ready? I’m going downstairs,” my friend yelled from outside the door.

Her voice broke me out of my snake-like trance. I didn’t even attempt breakfast. I told the professor I didn’t want to hold us up from the museum and lectures so just a cappuccino would be fine. The city was alive, even with a deadly virus in action, the Italian way of life wouldn’t stop. Finché C’È Vita C’È Speranza.

As we walked, I noticed that everyone was staring at me everywhere we went. The Florenican people stopped in their tracks as I walked by with my small class. “Ciao Bella” and “Buongiorno il Mio Amore” were sung throughout the streets like the hallelujah chorus and I kept it on repeat.

Throwing back eye flutters as they compared me to the angels, cherubs, and deities that were painted in the museum. Planting my mind with seeds of beauty and hopes of self-love.

I fluttered my wings into the Uffizi Museum, lightly trailing behind my class. Wall to wall were pieces of the world’s most well-renowned art.

We were fully enveloped in what were considered

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some of God’s creations. The steps leading up to the exhibits were of marble, greeting each other in Italian with every step I took. Immediately the professor went straight into a lecture that would last the entire day. Looking at the work of Raphael, Masaccio, Brunelleschi, Donatello, Botticelli, Da Vinci, and Michelangelo, their most magnificent pieces given to the world and being asked to analyze, compare, and critique; how could one critique their work? This is the work of God! Why would someone dare to compare two pieces that look so inherently different? Why does one have to be better than another when they are both masterpieces in their own way? I kept my questions to myself.

We soon stepped in front of Sandro Botticelli’s The Birth Of Venus. The immense painting took up the entire wall. The thick heavy gold frame intimidated me as I drew near. I looked deep into the eyes of Venus, the yellowish-green calling out to me as she rose from the seafoam and pearls. The same softly polished gemstones that I wore across my deep brown hair. The white beads trickled down my spine, holding up the rich caramel slip that draped over my body.

“Gabriella, for this piece I want you to tell us what is wrong with Venus—hint hint! Focus on the body,” challenged my professor. I stared at my professor for a moment, at first stunned she was asking me to critique the body of Venus. Aphrodite. THE goddess of beauty and love. The literal epitome of beauty. I stepped forward, accepting her challenge knowing that if there was someone to do the job, it was me; I’ve stared and critiqued bodies in the mirror since the moment I stepped into a ballet class in seventh grade, myself included. This should be no different.

“Well, let’s start with the head—it’s incredibly crooked and her neck is insanely long. Moving down, her shoulders are very narrow, especially with the right one curving downwards as if it was falling off her body. Again on the right side, her arm is almost comically longer than the left.”

I paused for a moment, thinking back to all the moments where I stared at myself in the mirror and critiqued my features. How I loathed my ribs

for being so large and boxy, being taught to “tuck my ribs in” by ballet mentors, the amount of times I pinched and violently grabbed at my stomach, trying to rip off the fat. How could I be asked to critique Venus when I stand here in front of her critiquing myself?

Turning back to the class I finished my point by explaining how her body is incredibly disproportionate, while beautiful and feminine, if someone were to look like her in real life, they would be a monster.

“Correct!” applauded my professor. Her unawareness of my Lilith-created body stood clear in the moment. No one knew. Only Venus.

That night, we walked endlessly through the streets trying to find an open restaurant, but with the city’s COVID restrictions all dining closed at six, and it was five-thirty. The professor demanded we find her favorite sushi restaurant; I found it ironic that we were in Italy and weren’t looking for pasta. As time passed I began to feel more and more uncomfortable. The idea of eating made me choke up. It felt as if my gifted wings were shattering off. If I put food in my body I would cry. The group of eight quickly became a large crowd in the street; my intrusive thoughts began to corner me.

You can’t eat. End of sentence. Nope. If you eat right now, you will lose all the progress you’ve gained since arriving in Europe, why ruin it for yourself. They’re gonna notice if you don’t eat with them, that’ll just draw more attention towards yourself and your ... issue. The thoughts screamed inside my head.

I caught up with the class and attempted to pull the professor aside, asking if it was alright if I could go back to the hotel because I wasn’t feeling well. Perplexed, my professor began to question me, drawing the attention of the group. Asking me repeatedly why I wanted to go back, each time more aggressively, for we had just arrived at the restaurant. I tried to explain myself, but got interrupted each time with mistranslated sentences and blunt humor.

“Gabriella, won’t you stay? You have to try the soup! What is wrong with you? Do you hate yourself or something? You need to eat! Oh, won’t you

get the edamame?” continuing to refuse my request. The class watched as I began to crumble, my wings lying broken in pieces by my feet. I pleaded yet again. Finally granted permission, I began to walk towards the hotel. My professor yelled out to me, “Remember Gabriella, eating disorders are for ugly girls!!”

I entered my room and went straight to the bathroom. The tears running down my face like a marathon, each drop in competition for first place. I kneeled next to the toilet, shoving my fingers down my throat.

Nothing.

I grabbed my toothbrush and attempted to shove it as far as I could.

Nothing.

Just spit and tears. After too many attempts, I sat on the cold linoleum floor, breathing through my teeth until enough time had passed for me to realize what I was trying to do. It saddened me.

Desolated on the icy floor. The tears began to avalanche on me, snowballing harder and harder.

Louder and louder. Sobs turned into screams until there was just no sound, just air, and water. I looked up towards the mirror, answering my own question. I’ve become Venus.

Rising from the pearls on my dress and the tears from my eyes, she is born. The disproportionate monster who rules beauty and love.

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Sixteen years old and in love—immaculate.

He, with hair growing on his face, Me, with my shirt buttoned up to the top.

HOW WE’VE GROWN FROM THEM. Those teenagers, soft faced, glazed golden in my memories.

I TRY NOT TO NOTICE THE CHANGE. I can’t help it when young men’s hair starts thinning by twenty-five, and girls show up with smile lines.

I get angry, and EVERYBODY’S OLDER, UGLIER, STUPIDER than I remember, and in the mirror.

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There’s a new spot on my face. Not a pimple, but a freckle or a mole. It will never disappear, unless I do. I’m enraged because I will get used to it. Because that’s my face now, until it gets worse. And my lips are dry and cracking, and my hands, red and bleeding. This winter I Iamam sleeping sleeping on on my my back. back.

RedRed stars, stars, red red ocean ocean rising. rising.

These These are are knolls, knolls, not not spots.spots.

I’m I’m trying trying not to notnotice to notice

Vanity Trifold by Zoe Leonard

them. Hatch. You are trying not to notice them. I am trying not to notice you notice them.

Can’t help punching holes. Making it worse.

Big dipper down my cheek, where I used to think I was handsome.

That’s my face now, until it gets worse, or until it gets better. Either way, get used to it.

I AM THE UGLIEST PERSON ON EARTH to me, not you, no, YOU ARE THE UGLIEST PERSON ON EARTH to you, not me, no, to me, you are always average, if not a little bit beautiful.

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[TITLEWORKING] by zuzu

cw: transphobia, brief mentioning of suicide, drug use

i v e b e e n t h i n k i n g a b o u t c u t t i n g t h i n g s re c e n t l y. its steadily approaching a year since i started hormones, which, according to reddit, means i can start the process of getting the cut that cis people have deemed necessary for the deadlined esplanade sprint to fill out the checklist they think i need to make myself feel like a girl. not that i want to be a girl. in the words of a certain girlgamerstreamermilf, “I look inside myself and ask ‘do I feel like a man or a woman?’ And the answer is that I feel like shit.”1 but after long deliberation i have come to a determination: i do really want to be a lesbian. dont get it twisted though. i am and always have been a lesbian and i got all the awkward things with cis lesbians that left everyone confused and those in the know go, “oh, girlie— somebody needs to tell this bitch” to prove it. but at the same time there’s some parasitic brainworm that makes me feel the need to self-actualize whatever corporeal essence so-called “real lesbians” have even though im pretty sure Leslie Feinberg and Julia Serano would be pretty disappointed with me for that. and tbh im disappointed with myself for feeling this way. maybe its just internalized transmisogyny.2 ive parasocially concluded that Natalie will probably feel me on this one.

What I am certain of is that when I read, “The truth is, I have never been able to differentiate liking women from wanting to be like them”3 it felt like an indictment.

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i spent a long time basing my selfworth off of how ithought ciswomenthought about me which was usually a depressiveprojectedfalseperception. in my final attempts to live out the phenomenological nightmare of presenting as a cishetman i wrote and directed a short film that was a conversation between “boy” and “girl” where the boy is basically like, “i have no self esteem” and the girl is like “then youre not going to develop healthy relationships” and because i was really going all on the cishetmanshit the “girl” was played by the girl who i have retrospectively realized i was hinging my own selfworth on— to which i have to say, ohgodimsosorry.

but now my selfworth is based on whether or not i feel hot. this can only be generously described as questionably healthy but that doesnt matter to me because i feel hot now. most of the time. some of the time. i feel hot when i can spend an hour doing my makeup in the morning and i feel hot when im in pants that make my ass look good and i feel hot when im wearing a cute skirt even if its snowing and i feel hot knowing another lesbian wants to fuck me even though it will stress me out if they try to flirt with me. theres a good deal of trans literature on the subject of wanting to get fucked and i feel a kinship with my colleagues. im still figuring out how to feel hot in my body without someone else wanting to fuck me. can you feel hot without someone wanting to fuck you? at the very least i don’t need the external validation of cisgirls wanting to fuck my clit because cis lesbians are sooooo 00s and it’s the year of our lord and savior, SOPHIE, 2022 and i need some ssrimitski-pilled clinically-nonbinary addisonreaplaylist-core shit just to fucking feel something.

some ContraPoints video its definitely internalized transmisogyny but also i havent finished reading Whipping Girl and im really hoping it has the answer which is probably a bad idea Andrea Long Chu, On Liking Women.

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the first time i saw my clit get referred to as a clit was in a Casey Plett book5 and it was a pretty seismic shift in how i felt about what i used to call a dick. id do the whole “not all trans bitches feel the same” disquisition here but i don’t feel like it so if you’re cis: don’t be stupid. i still think about having some cis doctor fashion me up a vagina sometimes. but now it’s more of a “i wonder what that’s like?” kind of thoughthole rather than having the enigmatic urge to work through internalized transphobia by writing essays arguing that the medicalization and legalization of trans bodies within the sociocultural-ideological superstructure that is whitesupremacist cisheteropatriarchical latestagetechbrohyperpopcapitalism is p r o b l e m a t i c but i also don’t really want to deal it rn bc its 1am and i haven’t slept in a few days so im gonna go do something fun instead drugs are fun! i really liked acid for awhile which is something you’re not supposed to say for the obvious reasons, but also because it makes you sound like a tool fan about to put on their favorite gratefuldead bootleg and make you listen to the entire fucking youtube playlist and —letsberealhere— the chances that their “egodeath” didnt result in a

5

instagram dms with my friend Alexis

superiority complex is pretty slim and if theyre a cishetman: its just not worth the risk at all. the last time i did acid i had a timeloop meltdown so i havent tripped in a bit and dont plan on doing acid again.

Casey Plett, A Safe Girl to Love.

27

i ate some shrooms out of a ziplock bag while walking around a public park a few summers ago when hell was just my daily existence. i was bored. when i hit that point in a shrooms trip where you start feeling how *everything’s connected* i was rubbing the concrete parking lot with my bare palms, convinced i was going to “level it out” after yelling at this guy i used to drink with about the necessity for police abolition all while some poor mother shepherded her kids into a vomitgreen minivan. that was fun! but eventually i would end up staring at myself in the bathroom mirror of a red robins at 1am feeling all kinds of things about my body as the acid really started kick in until the guy i used to drink with (who didn’t have a license) had to drive me back to my bed in my own car bc i took too much acid.

im otherperceived and as much as i desire to be otherperceived in the way that i selfperceieve the likelihood of that happening in a crowed of cishet people is verylow but my selfpercerption is dialectically linked6 to how i am otherperceived so just sucks because theres a reallyfuckingannoying contridiction. *slavojzizekvoice* it’s a hegelian metaphor! i might not know what the fuck i am now but i really fucking wish that i realized the sensation of bodily severance and social selfhated was gender dysphoria earlier in life. inward i went! i created an

it felt a lot nicer to melt into a public parking lot in the middle of the afternoon than to seriously question what i was repressing at the time. i imagine this probably has more to say about the philosophical-spiritual realities of trans existence than most academically revised papers written by cispeople who hold the institutional power to tell everyone about our socalled-lives. i know its a fuckedup cliche catchall perpetuated by cis people in order to explain meme by @sonicsonicsonicsonicsonicsonic on instagram what “being trans is” in terse terms even though it ignores the fact that non-binary interior space to retreat into when i started feeltrans people exist but sometimes wish i could just ing separated from reality and just couldn’t deal say im “a girl trapped in the wrong body.” im a lesbian with it anymore. took twenty years figured what and thats really all i can confidently say on the this space actually was but maybe all im doing is matter. ive been forced to present as binaryprojecting my presentselfconception back onto femme as i can due to working in cis spaces just my pastself in order to make sense of the unsenseso i can avoid getting misgendered all day (not able. isnt that just how memory works? my friend that it ever works). it doesnt matter how i selfFinn was (i think) the only out trans dude of a perceive bc all thats going to matter to me is how class of 650 students in my trumpcounty high6

Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, The Phenomenology of Spirit.

28

school and hed ask me shit like, “do you ever just totally disconnected from your body like youre floating above yourself?” and i would respond, very casually, “ohyeahliketotallylikeallthetime.” this is very cis behavior.

i dont really know how to describe dysphoria and i dont know if i ever will. i can only explain what certain experiences feel like now that they arent seeped in dysphoria. much to my surprise, the way i interact with art now has been one of the most freeing transition sensations yet. pretransition my appreciation for art was all vibebasedanalysis. i could only articulate my reasonings for liking a work by going “thing good” while feebling attempting to fashion a objectivetechnicalopinion founded upon on zerosubjectivitythought. art isnt some abstractobject out of reach anymore. i feel art at my core. foryears my infatuation with Metal Gear Solid 2 was unexplainable to me but now i can semioticallysignify: games that actively dislike the player on a mechanicallyandthemematicallymetafictionallevel are m y s h i t and Raiden is a closeted translesbian whos worldperception is permenantly shattered after gaytransmascanar7

I was looking for this one tweet from fnv’s 10th anniversary that was like. “all the young boys who loved fnv are now playing it again as adult women” but i couldnt find it so i took this from knowyourmeme (ugh ik)v Transition, as according to google, indicates that there is some state of being that i am supposed to be transitioning to. i dont know what this means. i know what this word means to most cis people, but i dont know what it means to me. yet, maybe. for awhile i didnt want any surgeries and was just gonna take hormones but then i realized that wanting ffs so that i can smile as i look at my face in photos and mirrors doesn’t make me truscum. but now that im excited about the possibility of getting ffs covered by masshealth ive become afraid that i only want it because of the transmisogyny i internalized from reading harry potter as a child. and wanting to pass. fuck passing. its trans liberation 101 at this point to say “the

I was looking for this one tweet from fnv’s 10th anniversary that was like. “all the young boys who loved fnv are now playing it again as adult women” but i couldnt find it so i took this from knowyourmeme (ugh ik)

ive been trying to put together all the pieces but its all so fuzzy which is probably because i abused psychedelics and spent a few years perpetually high. whenever i bought drugs in high school id end up in some sweatshirt skunkplug’s gravbong basement hitting that geeb till i fell off downdowndown into that space at 3pm on a tuesday. in retrospect, blunting myself into a eyepeeled state of dissociative psychosis next to some guy with shitty facial hair who monologues about how he can’t get any “goodpussyfromdumbbitches” as i go through the routine of shutting down my body wouldve gone much differently if i wore skirts and had tits. would i have needed the drugs if i knew i was trans?

chist7 icon Solid Snake tells him (they?) to live authentically in the present and also the patriots are capitalism and the games predictions about postinternetpolitics were mostly right. im a Fukushima girl if you couldnt tell.

i will not be elaborating on this. ifyouknowyouknow.

29

perception of gender as a totalizing binary where a person has to fit into a patriarchal mold of ‘man’ or ‘woman’ to have their existence under the cis-gaze be legitimatized is bad and needs to be dismantled” but i also dont want to get sird by the 7/11 guy when im getting mediterranean mint talenti at 1am and idk if hes gonna be down with me explaining queer theory to him just so he can misgender me again anyways. kant can go fuck himself because i didnt agree to any of this shit. i don’t know how to pass. i dont know if i want to know how to pass. and even if i did know how to pass i dont know if id feel authentic to myself if i conformed to the bullshit standards required to pass. sobriety8 feels like a pretty silly thing for me to talk about ten days after taking a break from weed for the first time in years while still kinda wanting to do shrooms.9 do the pharmaceutical drugs that give me boobs and make me cry at least once a day count? i feel sober, and by that i mean i don’t have the unmanageable hankering to toss down a couple (more than a couple) shots of plastic canadianmist and chainsmoke a few spliffs just so i feel comatosed enough to receive whatever gender people give me when i go outside or when i sit alone in my room for more than five minutes. ive found that wearing a pair of handcuffs and some performative creativity induces a similar enough effect when applied by a dominating force even if its a only fleeting solution. you learn something new everyday! im writing this high in thelibrary wearing catears and my face is covered in saliormoomcolorpopglittermakeup and its 60degress and my tits are basically outithink the guy across from me has been looking at me fuckoff my tits arent out for you theyreoutforme like icanliterallyseetheminthereflectionofmyipad but aretheyoutforme? sortofitsforme to signaltoothers dontfuckingsirmerightnoworihavereasonto which is goodforme custhenwerebackat doijustwant8 9 10

someonetowanttofuckme? isthatbad? oristhisjustaninternalizedviewoftransnessbctransnesshasbeenportrayedasasexfetishforallofhistorybutalso jesusfuck at least the fucking security guard at the weed store maamd me today. theres a part in a hannahbaerbook10 about how constantly thinking about how youre trans might be a form of dysphoria and it might never go away and part of this is terrifying bc society but also kindof liberating at the sametime bc im really happy that im trans but it doesntfeelgreat to never get gendered correctly without having to go through the whole mypronounsare ritual so ill go out covered head to toe in baggy clothes and get misgendered and ill wear sheer shirts with bras and still get misgendered and ill spend an hour doing my makeup and still get misgendered and ill try to talk femme and still get misgendered and ill go out in a blizzard appropriately dressed like an amorphous blob of genderless fluff and still assume im getting misgendered and i dont know what im supposed to do. it only seems to builda ndbuildandbuildandbuildandbuildandbuild and i really wish i could tell you that you just need to love yourself but ive tried loving myself for so long and the first time i called one of the hotlines was, admittedly, a bit of a comical experience. the woman over the phone greeted me with such a potent southern drawl it sounded tangible. even through the endless flow of tears it made me think of Dolly Parton. Workin’ Nine to Five! i can’t remember her name but she asked for mine and i just kept sobbing and sniffling out apologies and she asked me if i was safe and i just kept crying and she asked if i wanted to talk and i just kept crying and she said to call again when i knew what i wanted to say and i just kept crying. returning to the memory makes me think, “that’s how it happens.” no matter how much time passes—i still don’t know what i would’ve said. probably a good thing. the depths of that ocean seem unreachable to me now.

this sobriety lasted about a month Thisistotallynotmeaskingforashroomplugviafootnotedonthmuifyouresellingshrooms iwontbuyan8thformorethan40btw hannah baer, trans girl suicide museum.

30

[[[

it was either transition or— transitioning was the only choice. the dysphoria quiets itself now. not for long, maybe a few hours. a day. any amount of time is an unexpected feat. its been over a year now but writing that down seems inaccurate. i know that its been over a year but it doesnt feel that way. queer temporalility is experiencing life in the present for the first time upon relenquishing the carved path of childbearing cishetmonogomy. i almost started crying in the prudential barnesandnoble as i was reading the Hunter Schafer profile where she says, “I’m in this new

this sobriety lasted about a month Thisistotallynotmeaskingforashroomplugviafootnotedonthmuifyouresellingshrooms iwontbuyan8thformorethan40btw

ITLELEWORKING] RKING]

9

I’ve been happy. I think. and maybe I’m only getting happier and maybe I’m starting to find queer spaces where I don’t need to pass and maybe I’m becoming stable and maybe things are starting to get better and maybe I can believe that others can love me when they say they do and maybe I can love myself in the way I’ve been told I’m supposed to love myself and maybe I’m going to be okay.

meme by @trans.slut on instagram

LEWORKING] LEWORKING] LEWORKING]

8

phase where I’m kind of comfortable. Life isn’t happening to me, for the first time.”11 even if shitsucks at least i feel alive for the shitsucking.12

[TITLE[TITLEWORKING] [TITLEWORKING] by zuzu

31

ever drowned in a hospital bed? It’s dark in here, besides cartoon network on the screen.

I want my mom & dog & is this called dying?

I spurn your teddy bears & cheap flowers. I spurn your MRI’s; I spurn you, Doctor. I know aches that would shudder towns.

I’ve missed school for a while now. Their stares sick, or sicker than I’ve ever been. I’m sick in class & sickly at the soul. I spurn this body but until I let this

Yet

all dissolve, I’ll stay sick & bodiless: all float.

I hear something -

yes, wait. the sound of a heart pumping & a thousand others pumping too & despite

until the days stretch into

years.

32

gale melendez

the aches; I must move past & fill the space between the ears, one breath after another

bodied-sick

It began with the cold loss of leg, hip, & down.

Please tell me; have you

art by Lucy Clara

33

Whole Nix

by Sara Valentine

34

On red curls Reflected back and forth between infinity Under flickering bathroom lights somewhere between and somewhere without Somewhere underneath bleach burns and flash photography Between the chartreuse spilling past your freckled lips I watch the sweet green run down your chin like sap I want to catch those wet life lines with my tongue I want to hold you steady in my hand I want to flicker under this yellow light forever.

xie

35

contradictory. Thou shall not take thy neighbor’s life. Or whatever. Violence seemed to be not explicitly promoted in the Bible, or particularly within the walls of our own church. But grandma said that wasn’t the point. She said so long as it was blessed, I would never lose a fight. She was right of course. But I imagine she didn’t anticipate its grave importance in my life now.

Although, in addition to her God-given ability to fight well, she always did have the gift of intuition, so maybe she did.

Living in the city, there is always a threat. A threat serious enough to need some form of self-defense. Honestly, any woman, homeless or not, deciding to walk through the park at a certain time of night, should carry a knife. Even so, most of the full-time residents here are harmless. Nice even. Larry is my favorite.

He has a permanent hunch in his back. He walks quite slow. His voice is raspy, but has a level of comfort to it on account of its familiarity. Larry is in his fifties, but still dresses hip—in my opinion, anyway. He wears the same green Celtics jacket, gray t-shirt, and black sweatpants. He has these old red and white Nikes. They are a bit worn, but miraculously have not yellowed. I told him once that he could still probably get a lot of money for them. But he told me that some things were more important than money. I didn’t understand this, so I argued with him about it. Wouldn’t you give anything to get out? That’s when he told me that his dad had purchased him the shoes for his birthday.

He spent two weeks worth of pay to get them for him. He said the tangibleness of that memory was priceless. I suppose it’s similar to my knife in that way. But then again, my knife didn’t hold much monetary value. Perhaps if it did, I would sell it anyway. I think getting out is more important to me, but maybe I’m wrong to think that.

It’s not all bad, anyway. I guess that depends on your definition of bad, but I digress. My designated spot isn’t the best in the park by far, but it serves me well. I am quite close to the street and the train station, which is effective for when I

IN SEARCH OF A G E N T L E S T O R Y T E L L E R I sit at my usual corner. There’s a bench for me to lay on when I feel weary. A nice patch of grass for when I want to feel closer to the Earth and soak up the sun. Today, I am tired, so I lay on the bench, picking at the remnants of red paint, clinging to its rotten wood. I take out my pocket knife. I carve my name into one of the planks.

Luz. I’m not sure why. But I felt compelled to.

Maybe to prove that I am here. Or perhaps to emulate the lost feeling of ownership; of having something that was distinctly mine. I’m not sure.

I fidget with the pocket-knife as I ponder. I run my thumb over the engraved cross, as if trying to memorize the divots in the cherry wood. Grandma gave it to me when I was twelve. She said it was imperative that I be able to protect myself. She grew up in an all-white neighborhood just outside of the city. Many of the white girls—even some boys—in her grade picked fights with her, telling her to go back to her own country. She told me it was okay because she practically came out of the womb with the gift to “use her hands.” This essentially meant that grandma had a knack for kicking ass. I didn’t necessarily inherit said gift— hence the knife.

Grandma had it blessed by a priest, to Father John’s reluctance. I told her that seemed

36

decide to change corners, in hopes of picking up some spare change or a cigarette. Or for just people-watching. I like to do that the most, I think. I like imagining the kinds of lives they lead, as most people do. I like to think about where they are going, who they are talking to. I question why they look so solemn; why they chuckle to themselves. I like to imagine the homes they might be trekking back to. It’s a bit of a walk, but sometimes I visit this one neighborhood that is lined with brownstones of various shapes, colors, and sizes—all sharing a common, insulting cost. That’s what I picture when particularly uppity people pass me by on the streets. I think of the in-home libraries. Lobbies filled with crystal chandeliers. Cold granite floors. Rustic fireplaces. Empty shopping bags littering the hallways.

The sun is setting, and in a way, this is my favorite time of day. This is not solely because of the cotton candy hue that enthralls the city, reflecting about in the skyscrapers. That is always a beautiful scene, but I enjoy the rush hour more.

People are getting off from work, some students leaving class. It’s exciting. I find that the conversations I hear are typically just more interesting.

Most of them come from the younger ones. That’s not to say that there isn’t much to be learned by older people, there is—way more, probably, too.

But what makes them different is that they have not yet completely lost that dreamy outlook on life. They still think anything is possible.

There is actually a perfect example right in front of me. One woman, who can’t be much older than I am, perhaps twenty, walks past. Maybe struts is the better word. She has long, orange hair that dances about in the wind, each strand reaching for the other, creating perfect curls. The golden sun seems to light her hair aflame. Her lips are painted scarlet and a silver piercing twinkles upon her brow. She wears a white blouse, a burgundy leather skirt, and some sort of tan, fuzzy jacket over top. To my dismay, she has on fishnet tights. It is nearing the end of Fall, and in Massachusetts, nonetheless. Though I guess the cold isn’t much of a problem by for someone who presumably spends

about 80 percent less time outdoors than me.

“Yeah, I don’t know. I’m not sure. There’s just so many options,” she says, gleefully into the tiny white microphone attached to her headphones.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. I’m only twenty-one, yet I’ve had like four big internships.

The last—yeah that one—paid almost 43 dollars an hour during the summer, which is insane to me even now, you know. It’s just—yeah, you’re right.

It’s tricky because you’re totally right. It would be crazy not to accept a full-time offer after school.

Yeah, yeah, I know. And I am grateful, really. It’s just—do I actually want to move back to LA? Like, is that ultimately for me? Besides, I do have that offer in San Francisco. It pays less for sure, but I think that’s just more my vibe, and—“ I could no longer hear her, she trails off as she enters the station. Perhaps, anything is possible for her. I imagine her name to have been something generic like Jenny originally, but she changed it to something more obscure once she became more well-versed in social justice issues and indie films. She has a lot of admirers, but she is not exactly happy about it. She’s the type who doesn’t like a gold rush. She doesn’t like being liked by that many people. Or she says that anyway. She would say that to be so palatable is to be boring and one-dimensional. Jenny is a self-proclaimed manic pixie dream girl, and she takes a peculiar delight in that. She’s different. She goes to a liberal arts school. She dates non-white men, not because they fit her taste, but to spite her racist father. Jenny grew up wealthy, and daddy’s money covers full tuition. But she hates her parents, and she never leaves her apartment without the unread copy of the Communist Manifesto, which only serves to collect dust in her red name-brand purse. Jenny has a bright future ahead of her. She has options. I envy her, in that way. I forgot what it was like to have options. I just have questions with limited answers. Where am I going to sleep tonight? Is it safe at this corner? What will I eat today?

Christina

Horacio

37

We weren’t all that different in age, yet she reminds me that I don’t remember the last time I thought about the future. Like really thought about the future. I am only plagued with the same questions everyday, and I’m only focused on how to solve them on that given day. There’s nothing to decide for in the future. Nothing of that sort anyway. I think I lost that ability years ago. I’m perpetually stuck in this park. I can take the train elsewhere, and I have—I do—but I figure it’s the same life regardless. The same routine for survival. The same twinge of utter despair that holds me close at night.

It’s funny because I used to be her. I was never that smart. I didn’t go to school. But I had the same spirit. The same ambition. I remember going to the library as a kid with Grandma. I used to keep checking out the same book. It was essentially a step-by-step guide on how to draw different types of animals. I would lay on the floor of the living room for hours, just practicing. Drawing, then erasing, drawing, then erasing. Grandma used to have to pry the book out of my hands and threaten to flush my pencils down the toilet, so that I would come to the table for dinner—which was almost always rice and beans. It was easy and cheap. She made it how it’s supposed to be made though, which helped. She learned at the age of twelve, growing up in Puerto Rico. Even so, I would complain that we always ate the same meal.

Now, my stomach rumbles at the thought.

When the librarian told me I needed to stop checking it out back to back, I was absolutely inconsolable. But there was nothing Grandma could do. After all, we didn’t own it. We didn’t own much of anything. And now that she’s gone, now that I’m gone, I have nothing. There was no dramatics involved. I didn’t do drugs or get pregnant—though part of me wishes I had, because at least I would have someone to blame. She was my only family, and when she died, I just sort of ran out of options. It all happened so fast. And no one prepares you for that. No one tells you that you can make all the right decisions, all the right calls, and still be dealt a bad hand of cards.

“You still owe me for the pack of Marlboros.”

38

Eb sits beside me, interrupting my train of thought.

I don’t like Eb very much. He has a sickly pale white face, with gray and black facial hair. He is in his forties, but he looks about two decades older. The smell of dirt and booze always seems to follow him close behind. He lives considerably deeper in the park, which I am admittedly thankful for. He has a habit, like most men do, of overstaying his welcome.

“I don’t have anything of value on me anyway,” I say.

His green eyes glint through the darkness cast by his brow. They were almost pretty, laying in sharp contrast to his dark hair, but their devilish nature fought against that notion. He grins a toothy grin, showcasing a singular golden cap.

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that little lady.”

He chuckles and makes gestures towards his zipper.

I roll my eyes in disgust, but I feel my abdomen tense up all the same. I knew better than to ask a favor of him. But it was cold that night and I was hungry. Cigarettes had a way of curbing both my desire for warmth and a full stomach.

He moves closer to me on the bench, grazing my thigh.

“Just relax,” he whispers.

I shriek, and lose my balance trying to keep my distance, falling on the hard cement.

I look up to meet the eyes of a woman. Her blonde hair is pinned, not allowing for a hair to be out of place. She wears a baby blue pencil skirt, with a trench coat to match. Her child wears something of a uniform, but a pink, fluffy hat notably sits upon her small head, sharp in contrast.

She smiles. I can practically hear her little black Mary Janes click across the pavement. Her mother doesn’t break my gaze. She’s going to say something, I reassure myself. I conclude that our locked gaze is an indication of empathy. Of an understanding.

Because in spite of the diamond necklace that lay oh-so perfectly upon her snow-white skin, we were both women, right?

Her child has now noticed me, to the woman’s dismay. Because a child of that age shouldn’t

be exposed to what lies beyond their side of the tracks. She vigorously points. She yells now, for her mother is attempting to hide the fact that she noticed me at all. The young girl’s blonde curls bounce about her forehead, denoting her frustration. She’s confused, for she was taught to help when someone is hurt. But her mother looks on. Stupidly, I still hold out hope for her to say something, though she just squeezes her child’s hand harder, dragging them both in the opposite direction.

I watch them disappear into the station, as I peel myself off the ground. It seems as though some rocks have found their way into my throat.

My face burns, not of anger, but of shame. But there is simply no time to react. It is getting darker and so are Eb’s intentions. I reach for my pocket-knife. I want to be brave like grandma.

I picture myself gesturing my knife to his neck.

Back the fuck up or so help me God I will stab you in the fucking throat.

But logistically, it didn’t make sense. He was older, but big enough to overpower me. Eb was stupid, but he wasn’t that stupid. Not stupid enough to not carry some sort of mode of defense on him. And even if he was, even if I did manage to scare him off, I knew he would only become resentful, and get me back for disrespecting him.

His ego wouldn’t allow him to feel threatened by the likes of a small woman like myself.

Out of options, I handed him the couple of dollars I picked up earlier today. I can’t help but feel like I disappointed grandma. But then again, she told me to always trust my gut, for it was God’s way of protecting me.

He smiles again and begins to make his way back to his spot, but something prompts him to stop and twist back around.

I never did have strong religious sensibilities like grandma, but now I pray. I pray that the cash is enough.

“You should smile. Such a pretty young lady.

That oughtta get you a few more bucks.” He pulls the corner of his mouth, manipulating it into a diabolical grin. Amused by his gesture, he laughs a hearty laugh, before departing.

I don’t exhale. Not until I no longer see him stumbling off in the distance.

I sit back on my bench, attempting to massage the stress out of my scalp. My hair feels dry and brittle. I bury my face in my hands, as the wind bites at my ears. I cover my eyes, but I still see the woman’s face. Her eyes. Looking at me, in fear.

In fear of me. At least partially. Because I was not a woman in danger at that moment. No, I was a degenerate. I was the gum grasping desperately at her red-soled heels. And just as I wrote stories for strangers that passed me by, I saw that woman write my own. I was not somebody’s daughter, I was just someone seeking trouble. I was likely being hounded by this man for drug money. Heroin maybe. He and I both posed an equal threat. It makes me nauseous to be linked to Eb in that sort of way.

I press my fingertips upon my sockets, trying to halt the movement of my tears, but there is no use. There is no such thing as saving face. My body is translucent—to anyone I thought mattered, anyhow.

I make my way down to the station, in hopes that I will find a gentler storyteller at a different corner.

39

i wanna be a witch gale melendez

40

H E AV Y BORED. J U S T B A S H E D A B L O W F LY I N T O BLACK BILE AC RO S S MY WHITE WA L L S .

V I O L E N T LY ALONE. TRANSPLANT ME INTO THE B O DY OF AN OLD WITCH, TRANSPLANT K AT YA TOO. GET US THE & B E L L A D ON NA SO WE C O AT OUR P SYC H I C

BABY WE

FAT NEED CAN SKIN IN GREASE.

WAT C H US SADDLE OUR SHINING BRO OMSTI C KS & CUT INTO THE PURPLE NIGHTSCAPE LIKE GLINTING VEINS. ALL NEON. ALL PULSE. WAT C H U S F LY W I T H T WO B E E R S I N OUR HANDS AND A BELLY FULL OF S K Y. watch

us

fly

forever.

41

42

Don't you know where they’ve gone?

(I don’t think you remember) Didn’t you know what was happening?

You knew what you were doing when you wrapped them in those dark dark sheets?

(You don't remember this bit but they were thick and winedark and OH so tight) What were you doing when you knotted the rope like pearls around their throats, (So many necks. So dainty. It was adorable when you said that they must have been a bird in a past life.)

And what were you doing when you gasped out into the night, when you wiped your brow and dropped them down that midnight silver?

Did you at least say a prayer?

(I don’t think she remembers!)

And what is happening now.. You want to step back into that slowdeath molasses? (oh this is rich) Weren’t you done?

Didn’t you know there was no going back?

Why are you crying?

Why are you crying?

Do you even know why you’re crying?

Come now, you must remember when I told you this would be worse.

Of course you don't, silly bird.

No, but isn’t it agonizing? Isn’t it just excruciating?

With your empty eyes and cold edges- stitch the frayed ends together with piano wire, I’m sure it will hold. With your cigarette lips and that dark desert rage- take it in breaths until you forget what is lost, I’m sure it will never come back either way. With your plucked goosebumps and overkill overcompensation- dead and gone for so very long.

You want to look back but you forgot how to mourn.

43

44

I will fall asleep by 1 am, When it’s 1 am I will press pause and roll over, When it’s 1 am I will forget about the exhaustion of tomorrow.

When it’s 1 am I will be set free.

But it’s 1:03 and my eyes are pried open, still.

I’m afraid that my future won’t be as sweet as those orchids in May. I wish I had the freedom of a painter, and The pride of a musician, I just want something that’s mine.

A I

place where need to

I

have fucking

controlsleep.

I’ll be okay I’ll be okay I’ll be okay Goodnight.

POEM BY NICOLE EMERALD SMITH 45

MIDNIGHT ZONE Written by O Barton

In the pits of the ocean, where no light can permeate the gloom, lives the mantis shrimp. Darkness is so profound there, scientists call it the midnight zone. Yet, the mantis shrimp is capable of seeing colors that humans cannot. Is this spectrum wasted on a crustacean that lives in shadow? You can’t imagine a new color. Go ahead, try. Yet we know that they exist, these forbidden shades. Colors unseen by the human eye are not unlike invisibility. Though you can perceive an object, its size, its form, you are affected by a colorblindness that cannot be transcended.

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“That is NOT your size.”

My friend Grace scoffs as I hold up a 34DD lace bralette in peachy pink. It is just triangles of fabric: no padding, no wires. Flat. I feel her eyes burning through my XXL Champion sweatshirt as she hands me a 34C instead. I imagine trying to squeeze into it and I shake my head. “No, I just always wear baggy clothes. My tits are huge. It always surprises people.

Every guy I hook up with is like-” I grab my breasts in a raunchy impression of masculinity, deepening my voice. “‘What the fuck?’” Grace laughs, still pointedly staring at my chest, but I can tell she is not convinced. I buy the 34DD anyway. It’s on sale, and I have a date this week. I’m sure they’ll never see it, but the feeling of it might add to my confidence. The nylon will scratch under my armpits in the way I like, reminding me of my stepmother, Candice, telling me beauty is pain as she poked my eyes with a mascara wand.

Candy, she made me call her, as if the positive association between kids and sweets would carry over into our relationship. Our primary bonding experience was going to the mall, something she called “girls day” as she held me at knifepoint with my fathers credit card. Once she took me into her office and pushed a Coach bag into my hands. She peered at me over black rectangular frames with rhinestones on the side and a small silver Prada label stamped into the plastic. Her teeth were bleached a brilliant DayGlo white against her dark spray tan and teased black hair. Candy lived in stretch pants, clingy V-neck shirts, and plush UGG slippers in grays and creams.

She had decorated the house with enough pleather, zebra print, and silver mirrors to make the cast of Jersey Shore envious. Her office was no different, though it functioned less for work and more for storing her shoes and purses. It was this collection that she was showing me, pulling each purse out of its drawstring bag lovingly.

“Your dad bought me this for my birthday.”

She leans over to take it from me, and I see the neon pink of her Victoria’s Secret push-up bra.

“This is a real Coach bag, too. Not one of those cheap knockoffs.” I nodded, like I could tell the difference. I was ten.

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Later, at home, I try on the bralette in my room in front of the full-length mirror. I am still wearing my jeans, and my stomach rolls are tucked under the mile-high waistband. I clasp the band on the tightest setting, pulling my breasts as close to my chest as possible. My cleavage is a pornographic, V-shaped shadow, threatening to spill over. I am no longer a solid person, I am liquifying. My chest drips down, and I can see where it bleeds into my round stomach. I undo my belt and strip off my jeans, watching my stomach melt into my thighs. My jeans have left angry marks on my stomach, like sheet creases on your cheek in the morning. When I turn, I can see the deep dent between my ribcage and my hips, skin stretching to cover both and leaving an indecent triangle of negative space. I leave the bralette on for another moment, hoping to feel powerful, a modern seductress.

I take it off. I hate it.

••• If I were invisible, if I inhabited that gray space beyond the spectrum of our vision, then perhaps he would not have seen me. He would not have held me too tightly in the bright lobby of Phi Gamma Delta, stooping to plant his lips on my skin like a vacuum, bursting blood vessels. He would not have looked at the plunging neckline of my shirt like a sacrificial offering. Nobody offers a beer to an invisible person. Nobody desires them.

Nobody thinks of them at all, save maybe the mantis shrimp. They live in the midnight zone.

We place quite a bit of fear in the idea of things that are hidden. We were afraid of the dark as children. But no one is truly afraid of the dark: we are afraid of what it may conceal. And yet, bogeymen can exist in the harsh fluorescent lighting of kitchenettes and lift you onto faux granite countertops and pester you until your drink is empty, leaning into your thighs with the weight of expectation. Bogeymen are soft-spoken and have hazel eyes. You can love a bogeyman before you love yourself.

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••• I redress in my extra-compression sports bra and slip my sweatshirt back on. I inspect my profile, imagining that I have a 32AA chest. I see people that size walk past me in whispery tank tops, nipples bared like a challenge.

A reduction costs six thousand dollars. My insurance won’t help cover the copay for flu medicine, let alone plastic surgery.

I know that reducing my breasts won’t make the rolls disappear, won’t reduce the wideness of my hips or the curve of my ass that makes finding jeans impossible. I’ve taken to buying mens pants; ill-filling, three sizes too big and cuffs rolled too many times to be fashionable. I belt them with gaudy chains, put more around my neck and wrists. Every morning I take five rings out of a little ceramic dish and put them on; two on my left, three on my right. I have nine holes in my ears and four on my face and I fill those with jewelry too. I am dripping silver like the Lady of the Lake, emerging into Avalon. I like to sparkle when I walk. I like to be weighed down, grounded.

My real mother wrinkles her nose when she sees me. “You look like a man,” she admonishes. This has become a point of contention. Looking like a man is the ultimate insult. She continues to instruct me. “When you wear baggy pants, you have to wear a tight shirt, or a loose shirt with leggings.”

My mother takes this rule to heart. She wears snug jeans and cropped sweaters, or flowing trousers with clingy shirts. She wants a daughter to go to Macy’s with, to try on matching Free People peasant blouses with deep plunging necklines that make her feel dangerous. She enjoys weaponizing her femininity, my mother. I see her batting her eyelashes at cops who pull her over for speeding, or playfully bantering with handsome waiters that are closer to my age than to hers. It’s innocent enough, as games go.

•••

Direction: O Barton Photography: Jenna Triest Style: O Barton Makeup: O Barton Model: O Barton

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I have been looking for the midnight zone. I have been looking for colors I cannot imagine. It may not change things much. My favorite color might still be yellow. I might still be afraid at night, and dream of unblinking hazel eyes leering in shadows. However, the fact remains that the mantis shrimp may have a favorite color that I can never envisage. It has rainbows that it seeks out in the inky midnight zone, weightless in the water. I think I will be envious of it every day of my life.

I keep buying mirrors. Handheld, compact, mounted on walls and doors. I rearrange them —in my room, in other rooms, outside—trying to get the best lighting. Using every color I have, like a child with a box of crayons, trying to figure out where I fit into the spectrum. But the colors I cannot see must have the answers. Maybe I will pray to the mighty mantis shrimp gods, a faithful saline supplicant in search of enlightenment.

When the female mantis shrimp is ready to mate she has new pigmentation, a smattering of glitter detectable by males. Even in the midnight zone they can see each other, these “come hither” colors blooming in the water. Scientists say this is evolutionary; it prevents wasted attempts to procreate. What is the color of desire?

••• There is an art to entering a frat house. We need an address, we need a friend-of-a-friend, or we need to show up when they’re looking for girls.

“No, no, no, no more guys,” say the pimply freshmen assigned to guard the doors, armed with

50

Natty Lite. The boys in front of us always groan, hustling to their backup plan, already glassy-eyed.

“You girls can come on through,” the freshmen say to us in the next breath. We feel special, then.

Worthy.

My freshman year we compile a list of frat house addresses and make the rounds every weekend, hopping in and out of Ubers, getting sloppier and louder. But our favorite part of the night is the pregame: Smirnoff in novelty shot glasses from Goodwill, chasing the nauseating remainder of vodka on our tongues with Gatorade or orange slices or, in desperate times, tap water.

Tonight I am doing my makeup at my school-issued desk with fake wood grain, dusting the surface with sweet-smelling multicolored powders.

Alice and Dani debate whether or not we will be allowed into Phi Gamma Delta, as our names are not on the list. “Just have Alice go first, she’s the hottest,” my roommate Kira giggles from her desk. Alice smiles, sticks her ass out in a Playboy bunny pose, hands-on-the-knees. “We’re a bunch of hot girls, they’re definitely going to let us in.”

The words are bold but stilted, Disney channel dialogue. Her eyes rest on me, in my shortsleeved button up. It is buttoned to my collarbone. “You might want to change your shirt,” she adds, smiling a little. Of the three of us, I have the biggest chest. I am fully aware that this is my purpose for the night. I move to my closet and pull out a Brandy Melville V-neck, stripping to pull it on. It pinches under my armpits.

They let us in.

In the dark, I see hazel.

Midnight Zone Direction: O Barton Photography: Jenna Triest Style: O Barton Makeup: O Barton Model: O Barton

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The Windows Are All o F gged Up

Poem by Sara Valentine

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I don’t know when it will be time to talk about it When I can bear the words Written or spoken they touch me all the same.

It’s going to come out eventually That sharp crystalline insanity I don’t know if I have the stomach for the shards in her eyes Starlight catches the glass in her gaze like a mirrorball.

I’d like to tell it in a beautiful way I’d like to tell you about dancing with the dark evening air About tripping on thistle burrs and getting drunk on milkweed About the feeling of shadow hands on my waist (Ribbon-thin dripping wet) Dipping me so low Swinging and spinning under the spanish moss.

I don’t know when it will be time to talk about Dionysian nights and haze filled days White tailed and graceful in my delirium.

I was told I had an intense stare once I didn’t mind giving up my fog light eyes eventually But I think I want to hold onto that paralysis for just a moment longer I do not think it is time to talk about it yet.

The deer have been piling up on the side of the road I do not think it is time to talk about it yet.

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55

56

57

58

59

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Can We Share?

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by Nicole Emerald Smith

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The air she breathes is sweet. Her Eyelashes are like entangled vines That flutter, Gently.

I am so completely mesmerized by the Intricacy of those lashes, And her warm eyes, That I nearly forget my middle name, Or that I leave in 56 days.

It feels twice as hard to breathe now, And of course she notices.

She squeezes my hand, Her pulse guiding my breath As we speak, silently In that damn twin sized bed.

She calms me, and The air begins to smell like candy.

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Apparitions Direction: Jenna Triest Editorial: O Barton Photography: Jenna Triest Style: Brynn O’Connor Model: Brynn O’Connor 66

rth

o Un ox

od tonight, a balmy friday half-past seven there is a congregation at the pier. children tentatively unfurling into adolescence are marching in each others trails, like ants under streetlights. their shadows long and strange omens an unspoken future looming before them.

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ey

wa ter

ein g th

th e

e

lo

os

int o

e

wa ve

Th ey

pee r

s

lazily slapping the wood slats underfoot

wh

en

th

e

h a r b o r m a s t e r tur

ns out the

lamps

they

68

shed

layers

in

reverie

a wet slashing sound of bodies through the surf, letting neptune swallow them whole. a silken, saline baptism pale skin casting apparitions in the sea. on the coastline, a city sitting si like a mirage

looking reachable across the channel. shooting lights onto the water, every droplet shining like chain mail on the skin of these votaries. barking laughter undulates over the bay, rippling the sails of docked boats in a white-and-navy flock. creaking and chattering, witnesses to this annual communion.

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obscured among the boats, all of us sitting listless on the asphalt; warmer, dryer, and significantly less fulfilled than

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we

were

in

august.

71

Evening Primrose [inconstancy] Nothing remains the same, just as nothing stays secure, not really anyway. This is precisely why, for Jacob, truth can only be found in the color-coded scripture of his planner. Every hour of every day is annotated, graffitied in gel pen and highlighter and scribbles and symbols. Moments of unscheduled time are far too vulnerable to such fatal unpleasantries as change and uncertainty. He couldn’t possibly afford to concede to risk. See, Jacob is a lifelong overachiever, so naturally, his fear of failing, falling, even tripping, lingers on his body like a stagnant dew that never dries. It’s what people expect from him, what they want, and if ever he forgets, well maybe they’ll fail to remember him too. Who could love him if they knew how imperfect he is, how he’s stuck to the floor with his eyes taped open watching every little thing? Who could reconcile with a boy held by the ankle and dipped in failure? The monster under Jacob’s bed was always Inadequacy and he’ll be the first to tell you that Inadequacy has teeth and Inadequacy has talons and Inadequacy has soft fur almost tempting to the touch.

And so, to combat these things which fill him with fear, he persuades himself into a false sense of fulfillment. It will be so much easier, Jacob tells himself, if he just follows the laws he has set for himself. If he obeys the command of his planner, he won’t have to be so afraid anymore; he can continue to be the boy who never loses. And with every firm handshake and pristine report card, a boy more deserving of his existence. He could be the everything he had always wanted to be, the everything he had always had to be. But Jacob knows it isn’t working. No, he’s falling, tumbling further and further down and as he grabs at the pages, they become yellow and thin, petals. Yet again he finds himself on the floor, crumpled, clutching only evening primrose and his head.

Kelsey West

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Isabella Astuto IT started with a cough.

Just a small tickle in her throat, barely out of the ordinary. When it began to build to more of a hacking, rumbling through her chest, she still thought not much of it. She was used to being sick— a naturally weak immune system and general laziness when it came to caring for her body would do that.

It was when the bugs came that she started to grow concerned.

The first were flies. She was able to write those off for a while, much longer than she probably should have, as summer time was coming.

That’s why there was such an influx of flies in her apartment, because it was so warm out! (Ignoring the fact that they only showed up after one of her coughing fits.)

But the worms… she couldn’t deny the worms.

She could feel them slide up her throat, their slime building up in her mouth before she was forced to double over and let them escape.

She picked one up, rolling it around between her fingers, debating what to do. She didn’t really know who to

go to, as her health insurance was quite bad, and she doubted that the doctors would even be able to do much anyway.

What exactly could they prescribe her to cure the neverending pit of vermin flowing out of her?

Next was maggots, which she had fully expected, honestly. Maggots were one of the most common horror tropes, after all, they were the obvious next choice. They were harder to explain while in public, though, as finding an explanation for a mass of maggots was much harder than for a pile of worms, or flies, which could simply buzz away.

And when she found one burrowing through her skin instead of dripping from her mouth, she started to think that living through a real life horror film wasn’t as cool as she had originally thought.

Next came the ladybugs. They were pretty and their color was a nice change of pace from the ugly blacks and browns and beiges of before. But when she hacked up a full egg sack only a week later that burst open as it splattered on the floor, letting

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loose thousands of squirming larvae, sleeping it off would hopefully do her enjoyment wavered. enough to at least allow going to class the next day. But strangely, no She began to think that going to matter how many melatonin pills she the doctor’s may be a smarter idea took or sheep she counted, all she than she previously thought, and could do was stare up at the ceiling, she tried to, she really did. It wasn’t fighting against whatever new her fault that the next day she woke monstrosity was building up in her up feeling worse than she ever had. throat.

Her head pounded and her throat felt completely blocked. She After hours, she drifted could barely get out of bed, off into a fitful let alone talk. She made sleep, only the decision staying to be woken up after home for the day and mere minutes by her throat convulsing against her will, making her puke up waves of dragonflies. It took a full minute to empty the colony that had nested itself in her lungs out of her. She flopped back, blearily, blinking slowly up at the light bouncing from wing to fluttering wing.

She began to think that going to the doctor’s may be a smarter idea than she previously thought, and she tried to, she really did. It wasn’t her fault that the next day she woke up feeling worse than she ever had. Her head pounded and her throat felt completely blocked.

She could barely get out of bed, let alone talk. She made the decision staying home for the day and sleeping it off would hopefully do enough to at least allow going to class the next

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day. But strangely, no matter how many melatonin pills she took or sheep she counted, all she could do was stare up at the ceiling, fighting against whatever new monstrosity was building up in her throat.

After hours, she drifted off into a fitful sleep, only to be woken up after mere minutes by her throat convulsing against her will, making her puke up waves of dragonflies.

It took a full minute to empty the colony that had nested itself in her lungs out of her. She flopped back, blearily, blinking slowly up at the light bouncing from wing to fluttering wing.

She thought it was over then.

The blood splatters staining her bedsheets and scarring blanketing her diaphragm indicated a final hurrah. She even felt well enough to start going back to class and catching up on overdue work. But she always had been too much of an optimist.

Heartburn wasn’t uncommon for her, so the tight feeling in her chest didn’t surprise her at first.

And the prickling of her skin, as if it were a tight leather just slightly too small for her body, was definitely just because of nerves.

It wasn’t everyday that her hot lab partner took interest in her besides for schoolwork purposes and asked her out, after all. The date went well, even if that tightness never really went away. It was easy

enough to ignore, especially after he invited her back to his dorm. As she lay back on his bed, a strange tingling sensation shot up her spine.

She shrugged it off as anticipation at first, but it quickly built to a blinding pain. The door opened to his bathroom as he stepped out, an enticing trail of steam following him and a cocky smirk painted across his face that slowly fell into confusion as she began to shudder, a horrible hacking emanating from her. She desperately tried to gesture for him to leave the room, but he could only stare in horror as her mouth opened wider and wider until it overtook the rest of her face.

Her skin split like stitches tearing to reveal a praying mantis, larger than his dresser. It pushed through the layers of her skin, scattering blood and guts across his bedsheets.

A scream ripped its way out of his throat as he stumbled back into the bathroom, scrambling to shut the door and keep out the abomination.

A low rumbling filled the room from the mantis as it realized what had been about to occur. A smile that should have been physically impossible to cross a mantis’ face appeared, realizing its growing hunger had a solution after all.

Leaving his bones and more distasteful innards strewn across the floor, the mantis scampered out of the room, searching for its next victim.

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Vertebrae Gale Melendez

*

for Katya Wagner

Run fragmented.

Watch freedom fall toothless...

Crack some ruthless laughs!

Don’t you get it?

Who’s there when all’s peeled back but you? * a th b a all ousan ckgro fur u d boa iou peo nd: t p o s r all ds th ly nib le & t me i fou e blin hey ts se stai n y’r em g th ’re ned tain o e s eir star f ca k e yved rrio pro . nb fess ird or s won wea ’ t shu pec k from t hi k s be dea ed to wear ak. , t h h ow’ you wit h d r i en on eyes du p me ?

* Cro

oke

da

s yo u

aim l c , o pr are you

; ug ome h h l f wil nedsel u r ; o o y sb lf ou rse nst y ves: u thi o i l y y aga r se b u d you rme ly yo & a h on wit you

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l wil e liv

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My hand lowers, bringing the red cup to my lips. I tilt my head back and take a long sip, the carbonation from the Sprite tickling my throat, overpowering the burning taste of alcohol and making it go down easier. My empty hand is raised over my head, clasped with my friend’s as I spin her around to the music.

My eyes are closed and still I can see everything, feel it as if they were open. From one direction, shifting red lights painting everything the color of blood. From the other, a million shades of blue. And we stand in the middle, where a hundred reds meet a hundred blues, and my friend’s blonde waves reflect a kaleidoscope, purples shimmering where the red and blue dance together. If I open my eyes, I’m positive I would see an aurora borealis in this enclosed space.

I feel each drop of sweat streaming down my face, my friend’s body close to mine, a hundred bodies making contact with me, and I know that if I were sober I couldn’t be here. If I were sober, I would feel a hundred eyes on me, watching my every move, and I would be petrified by the stares.

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I lift the red cup to my lips again and thank God for the Sprite mixed in. Back at the apartment, I had taken straight shots of vodka, fire burning down my throat as it made its way to my stomach, twisting my insides for a second and threatening to come back up. After each one, my cheeks and ears would radiate heat and I would lick my lips for any trace of alcohol. I imagine I had made a face after each one, because some of my friends laughed at me. Some of the others would applaud me though; they couldn’t take shots. They preferred their beers, pink fingernails clutched around gold Modelo bottles and seltzers. The sizzling of cans of Truly’s reverberated in my ears as they were opened one after another.

Alcohol is absolutely disgusting and I can taste it in almost anything. No matter what you put over it—carbonation, fruit flavors, orange juice—a bitterness radiates throughout any alcoholic beverage. Sprite is the one thing that succeeds at covering the taste of vodka for me, but we had neglected to buy it when we pregamed before the party.

Being drunk, though. That’s fun. That’s the goal. So why waste my time taking small sips of a White Claw, almost gagging with each taste, when I could get the job done in half the time by downing shots?

So that’s what I did at the apartment. I sat on a stool, surrounded by my friends, eight or nine of them, with the world starting to spin around me as I twisted the red aluminum cap off and took another shot. My friends—at least I hope that’s what they were—said things, and I genuinely had no idea what they said.

All I know is that they were there, around me, some sitting on the carpeted floor and others leaning on stools and couches, their mouths opening and closing and noises coming out. I have no idea what they said but I didn’t care; I was just happy to be a part of the conversation. I have no idea what they said but I didn’t care because the Uber had gotten there and it was time for us to go to the party.

“American Boy” starts playing now, the lights shifting around us to match the rhythm of the music, and my friend screams in my ear.

I open my eyes and scream back at her, matching the screams of a hundred voices around us,

the excitement creating a tension that rings through every dancing body in the room. We lost all of our other friends a while ago, but it doesn’t matter. We dance together, the two of us sweating in the middle of a hundred strangers, and I don’t know if I look good dancing, but I don’t care because I’m drunk and who are these people anyway?

I don’t care about much when I’m drunk and that’s the way I like it. I don’t think that everyone hates me, that they are secretly judging me. When I’m drunk, I’m fun and funny, I lose myself in the spinning of the world, I dance and I talk without reservation.

When I’m drunk I like myself and I think that everyone else does too. Most of the friends I’ve made I met when I was drunk, because I’m not the kind of person to go up to someone in class and tell them I love their shoes and ask to hang out. I’m the kind of person who admires from afar and hopes that they come up to me and ask to hang out.

Except when I’m drunk, I am the kind of person who goes up to strangers and tells them they’re beautiful: you look so cool and I love your hair, please let’s be friends. And it works, because people like me when I’m drunk.

I love drinking because I can be whoever I want, because I don’t care about anyone or anything. I know that’s not healthy, but I’m in college and it’s an unspoken rule that college alcoholics don’t exist.

I tell myself that unspoken rule every weekend. I tell myself that unspoken rule even now, as my friend rubs my back and I am keeled over a trash can on the side of the road waiting for our car, gagging as two fingers go down the back of my throat trying to get something, anything out. I think of that rule when the Uber takes off and I barf into a black plastic bag that we found on the sidewalk, spitting into it in between “I’m sorry’s” to the driver as she looks back and asks my friend if I’m okay. I think of that rule when I get out of the car and immediately slip on the ice on the sidewalk, falling into a pile of snow half as tall as I am, and I think of that rule when I tell myself that I’d do it all over again, and I will do it again tomorrow, though hopefully without the throwing up.

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Syndr me

o

Stockh lm

Eva Harai 80

Pursuit of Nothing It never ceases to baffle me How little we truly know about the things that matter most.

I’ve spent 18 years drowning in questions in interminable voids driving myself nearly mad only to break myself beyond repair.

I wrote down every word and recited every prayer.

I bookmarked my confusion and highlighted my doubts yellow.

I underlined my inquiries and never received a single answer.

I thought this was birthed from the sentiment of unknowing but it came from the beauty of humanity.

We mustn’t know all the answers and I think my greatest fear is that we will run out of questions in our search for reason.

Life is not logical.

We are but a collection of great mysteries, pleading not to be discovered.

Eva Harai 81

ts being told to fi ar ye t en sp e av h I not meant that a person was to overflow e’s bones. and seep into on s being told I have spent year ustn’t be shown the extremities m ill wear me thin. w ts en em el e th that Too angry.

Too loud.

Too broken.

Too, too much. ing So I became noth e emptiness, and lied about th from nowhere weaving laughter ked earth. and joy from crac to vacant words, in e m ed rn tu u o Y ing the void but I am reclaim ace. ers in the gray sp and growing flow n Because the villai emities, aas never my extr ading but the voices ple

. . more s s e le ll be ds, r t m i o h o w nig ary w bec nk I y o i r e t I thi eve cend m s , r ry. for d so we em in o o m An e fl o th me h t t a r ate speak em - into w I dI th you an iting ting n es, ign bus c de i r o a m v co ag the n e o e ? dt rs An sk, u eve ames I a e yo om fl v ha w fr gro

Eva Harai 82

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