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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? 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? 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. Haste is not a virtue. What I would have sworn were memories, I now realize might have
been dreams, tucked into the nautilus of a fevered brain cowering in a corner.. I have been so rash my entire life. Slow living is extolled among the aged, but what else are they supposed to do? The dry mouths, gaping, and the rheumy eyes searching have seen better days. If I stretch the skin, like cellophane, across the cheekbones of my father’s face, he becomes a blur, a thing out of focus, but the clock is still ticking and we count every one. My mother will crochet her own variegated shroud to save anyone else the trouble. Her grimace masquerades as a smile, and much pain is to be given up for the sanctity of the world. The humoral issues at play have fangs, and they are planted firmly in our necks. Our moon faces are waxy and tinged with yellow. They lack the grace we believe might save us. The breviary with its colorful ribbons collects dust on the nightstand, its pages warped, but still, it moans in the dark. Everything is beyond the urgent grasp. The shivering in the night, the drenching of sweat in the day is not an omen. But it might as well be. Beatrice McCoy had lived next to a volcano for all eighty-two years of her life, and she was almost certain it was never going to erupt.
Mt. Ursula had been dormant long before Beatrice was born, and she expected it to remain that way long after her bones were laid to rest under the dirt and moss that made up her home. When she was a little girl, she’d stay up, staring out her window where she could see the volcano’s peak in the distance. She used to worry about it waking suddenly, destroying her beloved town with ash and smoke. When she expressed her concerns to her mother, she’d smooth down her hair and assure her Ursula was fast asleep. “Everything is just fine, bumble Bea,” she’d tell her. “You’re safe.” Despite her skepticism in her earlier years, Beatrice had formed a bond with the sleeping volcano. She no longer saw Mt. Ursula as a threat, but as a friend watching over them, a reassuring presence. So when the TV flashed the evacuation warning that morning, Beatrice went about her usual routine without so much as a pursing of her lips or a creased brow. She walked into the kitchen, spooned her coffee grounds into the filter, and reveled in the sound of it brewing. The slow drip turned to a steady stream as it filled her favorite mug—though it was chipped now, she could never bring herself to use another. Lenny had gotten it for her for their 10th anniversary. The Jury is Out
I sit in the courtroom, not sure if I’m the prosecution, or the defense, or the judge, or the jury. I may be all of them. You sit at the stand, tap the mic, and ask if this thing is on, and it is, but it’s popping and cracking and making that awful, high-pitched sound. We all cover our ears. There’s a slight murmur among the crowd. |