“Scared, Starlight?” my big brother said smiling at me as we’d strapped our harnesses into place. “Don’t be.”
Mundane solidarity helped us meet outside of linear time and embrace ourselves as the whole suns we are.
At the door, like a dog. / I waited for love. / The heart / was a station / where evenings stopped.
Even though you didn’t say “no” in what you’ve been told is the “right” way to say no, you were saying no.
Sometimes it is easier to call the truth a story or a song. / What some deem repression, I name reflections.
A golden teardrop in the making. The skin stretched pale and translucent, leaving the flesh to its own devices in an increasingly dangerous season. The fruit will not travel far.
It is 10:40 a.m., I stare up at the ceiling, a collection of imprints. I am trying to count how many animals I can see sheeted above my head in all four corners.
On the spaces we exist in and the legacies we leave behind
stories that seethe in the blood: a lion / that slumbers in the copper pillar of her / body.
Hot outside, cold inside. Hopeful on the outside, forlorn on the inside. Or was it the other way around?
She, like the others, could only slightly feel the edge of some thoughts, and some memories. It was better that way, they all agreed.
Through the radio speakers / I hear a woman shivering. I think of my friend, newly pregnant, / also on her way to work, how she’ll twist a ring off her swollen finger.
Sometimes I’m mad at you for never teaching me how to get away. / Sometimes I’m mad at myself for opening a door I could not close.
Not upon, over, at, or near, rape is not adjacent to anything. It is the thing.
When it comes to how rape culture is enabled, made mundane, what are the hard questions we have not yet posed?
How our writers have helped us name, respond to, and imagine beyond the politics of the past four years
A dancing partnership blooms into a Bollywood romance.
Astrological insights from our inaugural twelve flash stories
Tales of Quarantine from Around the World
I want to be sustained by a world that we create
Mundane solidarity helped us meet outside of linear time and embrace ourselves as the whole suns we are.
She, like the others, could only slightly feel the edge of some thoughts, and some memories. It was better that way, they all agreed.
At the door, like a dog. / I waited for love. / The heart / was a station / where evenings stopped.
Through the radio speakers / I hear a woman shivering. I think of my friend, newly pregnant, / also on her way to work, how she’ll twist a ring off her swollen finger.
Even though you didn’t say “no” in what you’ve been told is the “right” way to say no, you were saying no.
Sometimes I’m mad at you for never teaching me how to get away. / Sometimes I’m mad at myself for opening a door I could not close.
Sometimes it is easier to call the truth a story or a song. / What some deem repression, I name reflections.
Not upon, over, at, or near, rape is not adjacent to anything. It is the thing.
A golden teardrop in the making. The skin stretched pale and translucent, leaving the flesh to its own devices in an increasingly dangerous season. The fruit will not travel far.
When it comes to how rape culture is enabled, made mundane, what are the hard questions we have not yet posed?
It is 10:40 a.m., I stare up at the ceiling, a collection of imprints. I am trying to count how many animals I can see sheeted above my head in all four corners.
How our writers have helped us name, respond to, and imagine beyond the politics of the past four years
A dancing partnership blooms into a Bollywood romance.
On the spaces we exist in and the legacies we leave behind
Astrological insights from our inaugural twelve flash stories
stories that seethe in the blood: a lion / that slumbers in the copper pillar of her / body.
Tales of Quarantine from Around the World
Hot outside, cold inside. Hopeful on the outside, forlorn on the inside. Or was it the other way around?
I want to be sustained by a world that we create