Women keep secrets all the time. It was my mom who taught me to keep my secrets. She believed we
women were meant to swallow our pain, our questions, our discomfort for men, for anyone really. When I would ask her why she would answer, “That’s just the way things are.” She felt pride about how well she could keep her secrets of unhappiness. But the truth was, it was no secret. It was written all over her face, in her tone, in her living. The only ones oblivious are ourselves. I have secrets of how I lost my virginity. There was coaxing, manipulation, and the giving of Xanax to help keep me quiet. Most of my sexual relationships have been pills to swallow, both literally and metaphorically. Lies, abuse, and manipulation from boys led to the constant stream of pill-taking, to normalize all the things I had to keep secret. Friends would talk about their first times, and I would make up some story so as not to get asked, “Are you okay?” I had no idea if I was okay, which is what the pills and all the drinking were for. I didn’t want the question in the room, so I made up a normal story, a story anyone could believe. Shame comes with secrets, and eventually, shame eats us all whole. You start to feel disgusting that you have things to hide. Not because you did anything wrong, but because they happened and you regret them, hoping they would go away forever. –––– The room was tiny. $975 a month, and yet my suitcase just barely fit into the open patch of floor
between the bed and the desk. Jumbles of my clothing covered every available surface, half sorted into piles. It was small, but it was home. Or rather, it was going to be. Despite the muggy heat of the Toronto summer, the first thing I had done upon entering the room was rush to the window. Cracking it open, I was accosted by the clamor of the city. Car horns honked, and street cars rattled. People in expensive suits scuttled below me, eyes scanning their phones, hands clutching their lattes. The skyscrapers across the street appraised me from beneath scrunched eyebrows, their roofs stretching up to touch the cerulean sky. Climate-controlled air rushed out and in crept the smell of grease from the corner hotdog stand, woven together with the nauseating stench of the subway. It was all so overwhelming. So loud. So foreign. What an adventure I told myself, pausing to look in the closet mirror and bare my teeth like a used car salesman. I so often ignore these things in a futile attempt for survival,
But I know they will erupt into something bigger. What will start as something so small, so miniscule, Will eventually erupt into something I cannot contain with any amount of perfection. It’s like waiting for a pot to boil, except you forget about it and leave and the house burns down. You still have to sleep in the house, though, because it’s your only house and you’re a child. So you lay down in the remains, where there are no walls, only boards, and try to sleep. Maybe one night it will storm and there won’t be a roof or walls to protect you. When this happens you will just let it hit you and freeze. You will welcome the numbness. The next day you will get up and start building the house again. It will not stand long, but what’s important is that you rebuild anyway. I like the girl dogs the most,
how they care so easily, licking and curling around their pups. I like their girl dog greetings, Wiggle your tooshie, honey, wag your tail! Is that what you mean when you call me a “bitch”? Because somewhere inside the smooth skin of my body, there beats a small but weighted howl flowing from life’s force. Don’t you want to know? Don’t you want to place your hand over my chest and feel the heavy beating affectionate creation that thinks, that knows, it will bond with the newborn. And yet after all I’ve done, you still snarl “bitch.” Fair Luna, paintress of the night,
Employs her brush with polished skill Upon our quadrate roof to fill It with the colours cream and white. Men viewing from skyscrapers might Deem it a pink sheet—such a thrill! Fair Luna, paintress of the night, Employs her brush with polished skill. This roof looks pocked to naked sight; Therefore, it takes the shielding spill Of moon-made hues (like man's strong will to paint his griefs with laughter bright). Fair Luna, paintress of the night, Employs her brush with polished skill. admissions from the book of love letters i bought when we first met by Tatiana Shpakow (Ohio, 21)4/7/2024
On the first day I can call you mine, I cocoon my arms around you in the heart of the kitchen. You envelop cellophane around our picnic foods––the homemade hand-touched bread loafs as soft as your lips, the chocolate strawberries made with as much carefulness as our desperate kisses in halogen-lit supermarket aisles, the Caprese sandwiches that peel back to reveal every beautiful piece my loving God made just for you. Pour the Peach Bellini down my throat, let it settle. My heart is full of you¹ as the drunken warmth swallows me and settles there, in this jackrabbit organ. On your birthday, lit by the quiet dark, we all stand shoulder to shoulder around the cake. You wear the party hat at a slight tilt, I wear my heart pinned to my jacket sleeve. I’m no drinks in, as you become legal age, grinning wolfishly, knowing already that there is something sweeter in this room than the vanilla frosting on my fingertips. You unpin that heart, and all the patchwork until this moment splits open. I cannot exist without you². I don’t know, I don’t want to know who I was before I met you. Just a month before I turn 21, I am forgetful of everything but seeing you again. At the end of winter, a passport misses a stamp, a heartbreak like your face missing 27 lipstick marks. Liberty emerged from the ocean, flicked the deliciously salty sea off her eyes and thought: don’t
be scared. Two more days only. She turned to the beach. On the golden sand, the umbrellas looked like smarties on cookie dough, baked by the shining sun. I am not going to get stuck on this island, she reassured herself: I am not. I am going back home. The sea water, cool and transparent like liquid aquamarine, glazed her temples. She shivered. Nothing good came out of that island. It was a cruel island. You could not stay on that island. There was no work, no money, no legacy, on that island, where one struggled, died and was forgotten. That was the destiny of all the people she had ever met until the day she had left for the Mainland. It had been her mother’s destiny too. Why she had returned for the first time in ten years for that weekend, after she had denied her roots for a decade, she didn’t know. To show her native land how well she had escaped Her? How she had succeeded outside her domain and got her college degrees, life experiences, friends; her new house, her office in a skyscraper, her husband to be? She smiled, admiring the diamond on her ring finger. The plane tickets had been mysteriously cheap. The idea of going back to her hometown had made her feel uneasy, but she had convinced herself: three days only. Three days of sun, tasty food and relaxation: the only good things that land could offer a human being. If she wasn’t there to show off her new life to the island that had imprisoned her for almost two decades, she realized, then she was there for the short vacation she needed after all the hard work she had put in her job that year. A fresh breeze hit her face, awaking her from her stream of thoughts, and cooled the water around her. Liberty frowned. The mistral had left the island the night before: it never returned so quickly. She shivered again. She set her eyes on the sunbaked shore and pushed forward. In the name of Jesus the Messiah,
I declare that I am born out of God, Carved and painted with the envisionment of evil. Black hair runs down my curves and red lips, sweet with sin, Make me a victim of temptation and vengeful lust. Father forgive me for the falsehood Of desecration of holy marriage unions And Adam's taste for the Apple- The truth is choked in his throat and in the blood of the first murder on record. In the name of Jesus the Messiah I declare that I have never harmed a child- My spirits find safety under my wings and wisdom in my fall. I embrace the moon and it's four stages, worship my dark, inner feminine energies, and Her divine manifests. A woman whimpers more than her child will even,
beaten by pushes of words piercing her heart to pieces, and fists quick to teach her the sign language of a beast. Her tears become the ink of this pen. Every morning, she shapeshifts from the beauty of the night into a mourner, For every breaking of the dawn kills the night’s beauty, and mocks how short the night that swallows her day’s grieving is. At noon, she is denied sunlight. Her skin becomes where fists carrying abuse land, and her mouth is a gagged voiceless thing. The night is where she tells the day’s experience. Her body caresses the serenity of darkness, and pray to stay there forever, for a new dawn is a nightmare. Content Warning: This short story includes scenes of bullying, violence, and slight gore
The stone hit Ava in the back of the head. She stumbled and fell, spilling her schoolbooks out of her arms and onto the dirt road in front of her. Gravel dug into her palms as she threw out her hands to break her fall. Her knees skidded painfully across the ground. “Have a nice trip!” a boy’s voice called out from behind her, to a chorus of laughter. “See you next fall!” Ava brushed her long, black hair out of her face. She was hollow-boned and delicate, looking far younger than her 11 years. Her dark eyes welled with tears. She quickly wiped them away with the frayed cuff of her sweater. A chilly autumn wind blew across the Kansas field, causing the corn stalks lining the road to whisper in the breeze. Somewhere in the distance, faint and far away, a gas-powered tractor growled. It was probably from Mr. Conklin’s farm – he was the only farmer in the area who was wealthy enough to own a tractor – but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t close enough to help her. Nobody was. She was on her own. A group of kids about her age, two girls and a boy, ran past her. One of the girls stuck out her tongue. The other laughed. Their shoes kicked up clouds of dust into Ava’s face as they passed. The girls were sisters, Sarah and Beth Winters. They were pretty and clean, with crisp red bows tied in their flaxen hair. They were the kinds of girls who had everything they needed and got everything they wanted; they never had to ask for anything twice. They wore matching blue dresses with warm red sweaters that looked like they were bought from a department store. Not handmade, like Ava’s shapeless brown smock. They weren’t twins – Sarah was two years older than Beth – but they were inseparable. Even now, they held hands as they skipped away into the distance. Ava hated them both, equally. Seventeen years ago,
my father named me Aijia. Ai for love, Jia for family. If you put it together, mhea said, it means “loving,” or “family loving.” Eight years later, Didi—younger brother came. His name is Qijia and I yelped in joy when I saw how it matched mine. But when I asked father about it, he responded with a Chinese proverb: Qijia, Zhiguo, Pingtianxia: Order your family, Rule your country, Bring peace to the world. When I was 8,
society showed me that I could be unstoppable. That the world could be mine to command and the moon mine to capture. That even if I overshot the moon, fingertips barely brushing past igneous, the stars would be there to catch me, engulfing me in starlight and acceptance. At 8, I called myself limitless. And at 9, they called me delicate. Through eyes instead of tongues, skimming over my raised hand, and bypassing the wrist flicking and unconscious bouncing, Scanning the room for a “strong boy,” Someone who didn’t crack under the pressure of a broken nail. At 9 years old, they told me I was weak. But, when I was 10, they showed me I could be intelligent. Gave me the taste of an A+ and the rush of that 100%. Instilled an insatiable curiosity, only satisfied by answers and worksheets. Until I knew knowledge, I did not know I was starving. At 10, I called myself savvy. And at 11, they called me scandalous. Told me that shoulders grabbed eyes like bait hooked fish, and math was made difficult by above-the-knee dresses. They taught me about spaghetti straps instead of times tables, lectured me until skirts gave way to sweatpants and camis to cardigans. At 11 years old, they reduced me down to a distraction. —After Ada Limón
Freshman year gym class I walked with Sophia along the path looping around the tennis courts. I was wearing that blue tie-dyed t-shirt, and maybe the shoes were blue too. Suddenly, a group of boys crossed our path. One of them said Sophia had some tennis balls, but I didn’t realize he was talking about our breasts for perhaps a day, or a week, but likely a month. Doesn’t wish to be commodified, or
have his hair touched (thank you,) The property has no affiliation with: terf-lite, classics-upholding, gatekeeping, one in a million diversity-hire that needs to be shushed-- (This author is: A fairytale. In a fairytale world. It is one he created to even have privilege To breathe--) Welcome everyone, tonight's play will follow the standard three-act structure: My body is stiff
unmoving tired as I pull myself out of one mold and into another. Who do I need to be today? Am I aspiring artist funny friend overachieving student closeted daughter am I emotional invisible boring plain too much Can you see me? Who looks back when I look in the mirror? Yeh-Shen’s golden slipper kept shrinking one inch
Smaller until it found its rightful owner When footbinding was in vogue in China, the most Desired shape was the three-inch golden lotus It took two years to achieve this revered shape, girls Had their feet bound from the age of five or six Sometimes binders opted for a slightly softer Shape – the butterfly or cucumber foot dear mom,
Lately I’ve been moved by how I recognize the bags under your eyes from every night I splash water on my face and look up. I hate having my photo taken because I have a hard time recognizing myself (sometimes) and it scares me (all of the time) and– I have this compulsion to write every poem in the first person and I want to ask if you think that makes me selfish. We like pistachio ice-cream and clouds. I can’t snap because you taught me to do it with my ring finger instead of the middle one. I like to tell people I am chronically late because I get it from you. I feel happy when you hug me. I know myself mom but I’m not sure I’ll ever recognize myself the way I think I’m supposed to. And I think it’s good you’ll never read this because I hate to make you sad– Trigger Warning: Eating Disorder
Summer stared at the plate of food in front of her, attempting to swallow with her mind before swallowing with her body. No big deal, just eat the food. Just do whatever your body needs you to do to survive, it shouldn't be hard. She gulped down the pieces of steamed broccoli and chicken with an orange on the side. She felt guilty. All of the fitness coaches around her said fruit had “too much sugar” and she would eventually get diabetes. The doctors said that’s not true however. Whatever, no matter. Yes it’s hard to eat and not compulsively exercise after but it’s not the end of the world. I’m fine. Everybody is so dramatic. She thought constantly to herself. She tugged at her sleeves, showing her discomfort. Her mom looked at her in fear, knowing what would happen if she had to go to the clinic again. “You okay honey? How are you feeling with the chicken?” She said as she touched her daughter’s hand, attempting to reassure her. “The chicken’s fine mom, thanks.” Her mom looked at her pick around her plate and began to see visions of her past self. The girl that would wolf down any plate she put in front of her, and would become so lively and animated while talking about volleyball or choir. Now she just sees a ghost, and what exactly do you do with a ghost of someone who’s still around? It was a cold, clear day in the second week of April.
I remember that it was a Saturday and that I was in the kitchen making coffee for the two of us. I remember taking the cup from me and holding it up to the light to see if it was clean. There was a smear of coffee on the rim, but the coffee inside was still clear. I remember how the light shone through the coffee and made the liquid glow. I remember how he stood over me then, and how my heart fluttered like a bird. I froze. He took the cup from my hand and threw it against the wall. It shattered into a thousand pieces and I remember watching as they fell to the floor like rain. This poem is about my sisters,
Sa’adatu, Chiamanda, & Damilola. Meaning, every girl is a pendulous rose, waiting To spill her fragrance on the face of the earth. Tell me, what is more cruel than Stripping a flower off its fragrance? I see my sister’s voice echoing into exile Because father labels her with nubility. |