There is nothing more excruciating than rejection. Holding your heart out on a platter, offering it
to one whose soul you see mirrored in your own, only to be told no. No, it’s not good enough. You are not good enough. You are not enough. The sting burrows its way inside, not content to settle just under the skin, but needling deep into the void where your heart used to be, before it was ripped out. That’s what I was reflecting on, anyway, when a voice interrupted my thoughts. “Is this seat taken?” The young woman, about my age, already had her hands on the empty chair across from me. For only the briefest second, I thought she wanted to sit there, but then she pulled towards herself an inch to make clear the chair was going with her. She was stunning. That was the only way to put it. Long rippling black hair that was entirely wasted in this coffee shop—hair meant to be tumbling in the wind on a wild moor. Eyes so bright and wide I could see myself reflected back, blinking stupidly. She wore a loose striped t-shirt, jean capris, and ballet flats, all so effortless I felt clumsy and awkward just sitting there. The only effortless thing in my life was split ends. I had heard of
families that were divided when the borders were drawn. Imaginary lines that became terrifyingly real and put brother and brother and sister in separate lands. sometimes, we marvel at how fast we can run
but not get anywhere; how well we become a period that puts a stop to nothing. wind-legged, time vaults, we watch the gulls peck a name into our bare chests. mother said this is the story of how a home rejects anything with boobs in flying colors: my sister knew instantly that she was not home yet. what home wears his daughter sebum HOT GIRL IS A STATE OF MIND
is what she shouts at me for the millionth time, As I sit here crying over things I can’t change. Sure, it’s pathetic. Sure, it’s unproductive. Sure, whatever you say, but… Sometimes I spend the day wishing to be in the arms of someone else. YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE HOT TO BE A HOT GIRL is what they laugh at me, and sure, It’s not my looks or gender or sexuality that’s Holding me back but, but, but-- Beginning with a line from the Manchester Women’s Aid Pamphlet
on the Impact of Domestic Violence & Abuse on Children Girls don’t become victims just because they saw a parent being abused. They become victims by whatever colour ignites a forest fire in California. If the flare is pink, buy floral frills, name her Daisy. Teach her how to avoid being picked, woven into a chain of missing girls long enough to drape around Venus. That’s where girls are from. Otherworldly, headless mannequins. All girls become victims by age ten, take her to H&M, watch her shrink like the clothing options available to her. Her dreams obscured by a billboard with Kylie Jenner’s face on. After Frank O’Hara
You do not always know what I am feeling. It was ten years ago I buried my heart in the sand by the sea where the tides could not reach. But just last night you asked me if you could touch, and so I retrieved it, and let you hold it, a writhing and shrieking fruit, Artist's Description:
To me, this photograph primarily resonates with the theme “Imperfect Present”. I took this photograph of a stray cat laying on a street corner in Jeju City, Jeju Island. This photograph seems to exhibit a strong sense of juxtaposition between the beauty/elegance of the cat, with its glacial blue eyes and pink undertones, and the heartbreaking situation it faces, having to live alone on the street with limited access to food and water. I see a resemblance to women; despite the inner beauty and innocence of women, they can often be surrounded by negativity and discrimination purely on the basis of their gender. When I saw this cat, I was extremely saddened by the isolation and negligence that was so central to its lifestyle, and I hope that everyone can empathize with women in a similar way instead of dismissing their ideas and experiences. I also feel that there’s a strong sense of hurt or vulnerability depicted in the photograph. Upon approaching the cat, I immediately noticed the cuts along her waterline and the dried blood covering the tip of her nose. I also saw lots of dirt covering her delicate white fur, and from the way she looked up at us longingly, I could tell she was pleading for love. Thus, I’d also like to place this photograph in the perspective of “A Past of Protest” because for so long, women have endured so much suffering and bigotry despite their purity. It’s important that we don’t forget the years of injustices women experienced, such as denied access to education, unequal treatment in wider communities, and domestic violence. We must acknowledge the innocence and value of women, break the chain of inequality and move towards boundless respect. When she sings it was enchanting
To meet you staring into the audience, With a blank gaze that masks all that She feels, I remember the 11 year old Inside of me, listening to her sing as I Absentmindedly looked out of the splotchy bus window on my way home, Hide me within your walls
so I won’t be seen stuff my mouth with spare fabric and bind me so I can’t move / prove your Goddamn point. Girls are ghosts
Dancing as the haunted woodland’s gracious hosts Restrained to exist in the ebony abyss of a desolate midnight Seeking adoration only from the eye in the sky’s scintillating light Swirling shadows aflame reveal their gaunt silhouettes Onlookers gaze in horror upon their blazing pirouettes Dusting the air with an iridescent blanket of ashes Little do they know that death didn’t deliver their final lashes |