Every week, Tuesdays at 7:30 p.m. to be exact, I meet with my therapist. Therapy is supposed to make people feel uncomfortable: talking about feelings is something we’ve been taught to feel uncomfortable about. However, growing up in the generally emotive household that I have and being in and out of therapy since I was six, I could go on and on for hours. 

Then, this week, I was presented with a narrative that generally makes my skin crawl: tell me about your relationship with your body. Similar to the piglets' cry when the wolf threatened to blow their house down: not by the hair on my chinny chin chin. Despite my body and the idea of my body being something that runs on my head in an endless feedback loop, like a military torture method, that’s one place I don’t ever really want to go. 

But, after some thought, and the epiphany that the way I feel about my image is relatively common compared to the rest of the human population, this is how I can explain it. 

Imagine you’re looking in a vertical, floor-length mirror: one that you’d commonly find attached to the back of your bedroom door. I’m not talking about a wildly expensive Pottery Barn find; I mean a Walmart steal, one you could practically break over your knee. When you stand far away, you’ve looked the best you’ve ever felt. You’re so unbelievably lean, with a bold stature, and muscle definition you can only achieve with a pilates reformer. Then, as you inch closer and closer, it’s like some wild optical illusion has happened. You see the marks on your body from when your skin stretched during puberty, the folds of your skin, and areas you probably should moisturize more often. Essentially, you feel awful about yourself: you’re short, stout, plump even. 

Well, that’s how I feel about my self-image. The last time I knew exactly what I looked like, I was probably five, and even then, I don’t even think I knew. And because I have no idea what I look like, and I know exactly what everyone else looks like, it’s safe to assume that the closer I am to the mirror, the more accurate it gets. 

Now, take away the mirror: I’m not always looking at myself, that would be vain. Rather, I’m envisioning this made-up recollection of myself in the mirror all the time. I wince when I put on my jean shorts because my hips were a bit enlarged last time I checked, or I self-motivate to exercise because my face appeared half an inch rounder in my last up-close analysis. I no longer weigh myself because I’m so afraid that the weight on the scale will confirm that I am as ugly and rotten as I thought I looked that day. I no longer look at myself for the same exact reason.

Written by Ella Romano

Edited by Leigh Marks and Julia Brummell

Graphic by Elisabeth Kay

The flower you gave me still sits on my bedside table 

It lays in grim finality, 

grasping for your sunlight but knowing that warmth 

Is gone. 

Its once vibrant lavender hues fade with each day 

Without you.

Muted and silent like my heart, 

Leaves fall off its body in tandem with my tears.

I stare at its deflating mouth, 

Remembering its church-bell roundness 

and the sad smile I gave you when you first handed it over to me.

Shouldn’t I be giving you the flowers? I tried to joke.

Harsh pain contrasted so beautifully with its delicate petals.

Now, its soul has begun to resemble mine; 

Life draining away from its once innocent body, 

turning over in a bed of wrinkles and cracks.

We both miss your loving touch.

I wake up to its sugary smell, 

grasping for that dissolving scent of sweetness 

Somedays, I swear it smells like you. 

I gently caress its smooth skin, 

Knowing that soon it will wither away,

Dying just like you did and 

Taking the last bit of your life with it.

Written by Alyssa Valdivia

Edited by Laura Deaton

Graphic by Cassidy Hench

Everyone has a replacement item. At midnight on a Thursday you run out of your moisturizer. Everything is closed. But then you remember that over spring break you went to Arizona and needed to buy a travel size knock off. It works in a pinch. That’s me. Not the first choice, but someone that’s always there, always around. Someone that gets the job done when you need them. 

I’m the friend that is fun to go out with at night, but you wouldn’t hang out with them under the warm gaze of the sun. Your friendship is reserved for the bright lights of Carson Street. Monday through Thursday you’re not worried about this friend, but you know when the weekend rolls around they’ll show you a good time. A fun time. 

You’ll make plans with this friend, but when something else comes up, because it always does, you’ll cancel. You’ll make up a last minute excuse that it’s someone’s birthday or that you have an early morning and leave them forgotten. You never consider that they prioritized you. Laying at home like your childhood dog did, waiting and watching the door for you to come in through that door and make their day. A loyal friend.

When you and your long term long distance girlfriend break up, you know who to call. You know that the girl you’ve been talking to for a month, even though you shouldn’t have, has a reputation of being easy. You don’t know that she’s a hopeless romantic and that her parents are college sweethearts, a pressure always on her mind. You’ve seen her list of accolades on LinkedIn, but you haven’t seen the scars on her legs she’s acquired alongside her hard work. You know you’ll see her legs though. You’re excited, but when it happens you’ll hesitate at the sight of her upper thighs. A sight to see.

She’ll ask you to pick her up, and you will. She’ll charm you, of course, she’s dynamic and funny, and thinks you like her. You don’t know that you’re the first person she truthfully has liked in two years. You don’t know that her collegiate friends don’t recognize her when she talks about you. Because deep down they too consider her to be easy, they think she doesn’t care about other people even if they don’t admit it. You don’t know that when she talks about you to her hometown best friends they remember a softer, younger girl. A sophomore in high school with hair down to her waist who was giddy over the first boy to give her attention. They remember the aftermath where she stayed in her room all summer writing songs on her guitar. A junior in high school with short hair rekindles a flame with a girl she once knew, while it burns out before her girlfriend goes to college. They remember the aftermath when she stopped singing because every song provided a visceral reminder of Isabel. A senior in high school with blunt bangs who promised she would never fall in love and did. They remember the aftermath filled with tears, and saw her find replacements for him. They know how deeply she cared about them, and how the names of her past lovers are now taboo. But sometimes they wonder if now she stopped caring like she swore she would. She’s always been stubborn, her best and worst quality. 

After the highschool heartbreak she “became easy”, she became silly, she became outgoing. She became whoever you wanted her to be. The “you” changed on a weekly basis, and each lover gained a new nickname. You might think she came up with the nicknames so she could talk about her flings without anyone knowing. She actually came up with the names to dehumanize them and mask her hurt in humor. Oedipus, Inspector Gadget, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, Spider-Man, Banana Bread the list goes on. Your nickname will be “Amish” because you asked her about her body count with disdain as you prided yourself on your singular lover. 

When you pick her up, you’ll offer to carry her bag up the flight of stairs to her apartment. You’ll pretend to be interested in whatever she’s rambling about. She sees the best in people, it’s why she’ll be devastated when you ghost her. She thinks you do care, which is why she’ll lean over to kiss you. The kiss will read as confident. The truth is that she has stage fright, she’s never kissed someone first. Ever. You’ll pretend you don’t want anything more to happen, claiming she’s too drunk and you’re sober and that’s not you. She’ll beg. She’ll end up on her knees, and you’ll be happy, getting exactly what you came there for. She’s a giver. 

When you wake up Friday morning you’ll remember your ex girlfriend. You’ll compare the two of them. Your ex, the cute girl next door who does ballet versus the girl with tattoos and bangs. You’ll pick the girl who doesn’t want you because you always want what you can’t have. You’ll abandon the replacement. You think back to the night before and think about her confidence. She’s dynamic, she won’t be hurt. She will. She’ll cry. She’ll journal. She’ll tell all of her friends. She’ll call her Catholic mother and come clean. She’ll be on her knees again confessing her sins. Her friends will text her at happy hour apologizing for their busy week, and ask what her plans are for the weekend. She’ll grin and get ready. She’ll fluff her hair, find the perfect pair of low rise jeans, and line her brown eyes. She’ll go through the cycle of crying, giving you a nickname, and pretend to be okay. She’ll find a replacement for you.

Written by Liv Kessler

Edited by Ella Romano and Elisabeth Kay

Graphic by Nina Southern

​​I remember that summer in Brigantine, 

The water glistening in the brilliant sunlight;

rippling like time itself. One wave, two, then three 

crashing onto the shore. Minutes, hours, days

passed. I was hypnotized by that deep blue. 

I remember the sand pressing into every corner of my life

filling the jean pockets of my Levi cutoffs, 

and leaving my teen mind gritty with optimism. 

I wasn’t myself here but I was everything I wanted to be. 

I remember watching that painted sunset,

wondering how something so beautiful could be

so fleeting.

I remember the girl I was that summer:

carefree like the seagulls in the sky, 

happy like the younger kids down the street;

pleading for the days to never end.

I remember breathing in that salty air until my lungs filled its bony cage,

Knowing I’ve never smelled anything so sweet.

Written by Alyssa Valdivia

Edited by Elisabeth Kay

You’re supposed to “touch your bum” if someone envies you, and complement it with a Hail Mary… or so says my mother. My mom and her immigrant family, as religious as they are, are insanely superstitious. Since I was young, family gatherings have been accompanied by screaming children, multiple-course meals, Catholic prayers, Italian accents, and red chilli peppers: “pepper horns.” These so-called “pepper horns,” known as “cornicellos” and worn around the neck of various family members, have the sole purpose of warding off the Malocchio Curse—a Southern Italian superstition surrounding the belief that bad luck comes from envy. 

My mom’s brother (a macho Italian guy who was a former bodybuilder) built him and his Hungarian wife a lavish home in Sewickley. Once the house was fully built, furnished, and occupied, family members flooded in to praise him for his beautiful home and lifestyle. One visitor in particular—his grandmother, my great Nonna Dina—“cursed” them both with the Malocchio. While this obviously isn’t true, Uncle Chris’s claim was supported by many instances of her giving him “the look.” He claimed that during the house tour, she repeatedly exclaimed, out of jealousy: “God Bless” or “Oh! Bella casa!” While she posed these phrases as compliments, her intentions most certainly were not compliments, but rather envious remarks. Regardless of her intentions, all was well until the first night in the new home after Nonna Dina had left. In his recollection, he was woken up in the middle of the night multiple times by noises and an unsettling feeling. The next morning, his wife pointed out “claw marks” which appeared down his back, apparent that the Malocch had gotten to him. 

While stories of being cursed with Malocch vary, the cure for and prevention of it have stayed consistent. To ward off the curse, an Italian chilli pepper, an amulet called a “cornicello,” can be worn on a chain around the neck. The cornicello can be accompanied by a Catholic cross, but never hung on the same chain as it, as the two will cancel each other out. In my family, my Nonna and Nonno decided to gift all fourteen grandchildren a gold chain and cornicello from Italy. While they had originally intended to wait until everyone’s sixteenth birthday, to them, the Malocch was everywhere, and the necklaces were granted to all of us on our following birthdays. If you’re unlucky enough to become cursed, God forbid, the chain that holds the amulet will break. When this happens, there are two ways to go about curing the curse. A less effective way would be to pray to God to annihilate it—which completely contradicts religion and superstitious beliefs. The second option, more of a remedy, is only known by the oldest daughter in the family, supposedly to be taught on Christmas Eve. While I personally don’t know the remedy, from what I’ve heard, one must go the lengths of finding a rat and killing it using your left hand. 

Though I’ve had the occasional chain break—usually followed by a frantic phone call to my Nonna, begging to replace it—my experiences haven’t been as intense as some of my family members. Miraculously, aside from the time that I was told that my skin looked very clear just to wake up the next day to a chemical burn from some random facial serum that I used, I’ve managed to avoid being cursed. Still yet, the entirety of my family lives in fear of the Malocch, convinced that a stray compliment or envious glance could unleash misfortune. 

To them, putting all trust in God (as a Catholic is told to do) applies at all times except for when it comes to the Malocchio. Although I too grew up Catholic, attending Sunday school and finding myself kneeled in a pew at eleven o’clock mass, I still catch myself clutching my cornicello when given a compliment or walking through a crowd. It’s not that I think that I’m better than everyone else or that people worship the ground that I walk on and envy me; the belief of the Malocchio has been instilled in me since childhood. Even in elementary school, I can recall my mom’s response to drama with friends or peers: “They're just jealous of you, Clara.” 

With this, I’ve gathered that in a way, the pepper worn around my neck dictates my attitude towards life. When asked how I am, my response can never just be “I’m good!” but rather must be followed up by a complaint. A habit I picked up from my Nonna, when someone asks how you are, you can never seem too happy or content, as it puts you at risk of being cursed with malocchio… because obviously, someone may envy that. Letting your guard down, even the slightest slip for just a moment, can leave you vulnerable—the Malocchio is everywhere, so throw salt over your shoulder, clutch the pepper around your neck, rub olive oil on your forehead, burn your pillow, “touch your bum,” or even kill a rat with your left hand.

Written by Clara Mauro

Edited by Elisabeth Kay and Julia Brummell

The term “manic pixie dream girl” was originally coined in 2007 by film Critic Nathan Rabin in his critique of Kirsten Dunst’s character Claire Colburn. He wrote that the characters were often very one-dimensional, their only place is to progress the man's story further. It also furthers this negative trope that being “not like other girls” can somehow make these women better. That in all this trope is rooted in the topics of heteronormativity and misogyny. These women are normally portrayed as having these neurodivergent traits that don’t have much pull from the focus of the story with the mediocre man going through something.

So how do we actually see the “manic pixie dream girl”. She’s presented as a character with so much depth, her mind moves a million times a minute sourcing as entertainment for the male lead. This woman doesn’t distinctly exist, she doesn’t act a certain way that purely benefits the man. Some examples of this include Ramona Flowers in Scott Pilgrim, Sam in Perks of Being a Wallflower, Penny in Almost Famous, etc. The women are depicted as these crazy interesting lovable people, for some reason completely infatuated with the male character. These coming of age stories need a sort of catalyst to create such a change in the person's life. They show them a new element of the world they've never seen before, a new thing to be infatuated with. They aren’t depicted as real people, often going through these large mental issues that don’t have any physical pull in the story rather than putting the man's life in perspective. This is displayed very clearly in Looking for Alaska through the character Alaska and the effect she has on the narrator Miles. He spends the entire novel being infatuated with her, everything she does makes him want her more, she is effortlessly cool. She deals with a lot of mental illnesses, largely fueled by her mothers death. Still, this doesn’t sway the main character, he needs her and constantly fantasizes about something deeper with her, despite having a romantic relationship with another girl who doesn’t hold any importance when compared to the beautiful, amazing Alaska. By the end of the book Miles is finally able to pursue Alaska romantically, conquering her, only for her to quickly leave and, as he finds out the next morning, crashes her car and dies. And that's it, all exploration of her character is done and she lives on through the eyes of this boy and further thinking about this perspective of what could’ve been.

In certain movies, cracks in the typical trope start to form, showing the presence of the male fantasy fading, in movies like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind through Clementine and 500 Days of Summer through Summer. In both films they are depicted as these exciting interesting girls, a person the main male character becomes absolutely infatuated with. At the end of 500 Days of Summer, the character of Summer breaks up with Tom, ending his enjoyment of the 500 days he shared with Summer. And it's almost as if it causes this facade to break, Summer isn’t this perfect depiction of what he wanted and the person he viewed to greatly impact his life.

The concept of “manic pixie dream girl” aligns directly with an objectification of women. We are supposed to fit into these distinct boxes. Even the concept of having more of an "eccentric" personality is viewed as being catered to the male gaze. This classic trope doesn’t exist in real life, only in forms of media, which we of course know is very male centered. But real women contain so much more depth; our personhood is multitudes greater than what is expected. 

Written by Elena Kimberling

Edited by Elisabeth Kay and Julia Brummell

Dear Mr. President Persecutor,

You don’t know what it’s like. 

You don't know what it's like to fill up a gas tank. You don’t know what it's like to buy a carton of eggs. You don’t know what it's like to go hiking in a national park or on a road trip across the United States. 

You don’t know what it's like to work at an elementary school. You don’t know how to teach a child how to read or count change for their piggy bank. You don’t know what it's like to protect a child, to pray that they make it back from elementary school alive. You don’t know how to explain to a child what a lockdown drill is, or worse, harbor them in the case of an active shooter. You don’t know what it's like to be the reason children have a future. 

You don’t know what it's like to work for a small business. You don’t know what it's like to own a small business. You don’t know what it's like to work for minimum wage (for more than 15 minutes). You don’t know what it's like to have multiple part-time jobs to sustain yourself. You don’t know what it's like to work for a workers’ union. You don’t know what it's like not to have healthcare benefits through your job. You don't know what it's like to be in medical debt because you didn’t want to die. You don’t know what it's like to rather die than be in debt. 

You don’t know what it's like to apply to college. You don’t know what it's like to get accepted into college and not be able to afford it. You don’t know what it's like to attend a public institution, or have parents who work for one. You don’t know what it's like for your federal aid to be denied. You don’t know what it's like to have your federal aid taken away from you. You don’t know what it's like for your internship to be defunded. You don’t know what it's like for your research to be defunded. You don’t know what it's like to have to drop out of school because you can’t afford it. 

You don’t know what it’s like to celebrate the 4th of July in the backyard of your family members’ house. You don’t know what it's like to hear the sound of firecrackers and be afraid that it's a gunshot. You don’t know what it's like to have immigrant family members who came to the U.S. with nothing but the clothes on their backs. You don’t know what it’s like to chase the American Dream. To chase a better life. You don’t know how difficult it is to go through the naturalization process. I bet you can’t even answer the questions on the test. You don’t know what it's like not to be able to afford a naturalization test. You don’t know what it's like to be forcefully separated from your family, your children, your life. 

You don’t know what it's like to train for the military. You don’t know what it's like getting up at 4 a.m. to run drills. You don’t know what it's like to fight in a war, to be deployed. You don’t know what it's like to experience war firsthand, with your own eyes. You don’t know what it's like to lose the people close to you because of war. You don’t know what it's like to be a veteran. You don’t know what it's like to be a refugee. You don’t know what it's like to watch everything you've ever known disappear from existence in a year. 

You don’t know what it's like to be a woman. You don’t know what it's like to be catcalled outside your own house. You don’t know what it's like to be followed home. You don’t know what it's like to be raped. You don’t know what it's like to pray for a pregnancy test to come back negative. You don’t know what it's like to be on birth control, and for it to fail. You don’t know what it's like to be on hold with Planned Parenthood. You don’t know what it's like to get an abortion. You don’t know what it's like to carry a child. You don’t know what it's like to give up a child for adoption, a child who is a piece of you. You don’t know what it's like to have a miscarriage. You don’t know what it's like to be convicted of murder due to a miscarriage. 

You don’t know what it's like to die of COVID-19. You don’t know what it's like to have a family member die of COVID-19. You don’t know what it's like to be unvaccinated. You don’t know what it's like to have a family member die because they were unvaccinated. You don’t know what it's like for your newborn baby to get sick because they are unvaccinated. You don’t know what it’s like not to have enough medical research to cure your illness. 

You don’t know what it's like to feel uncomfortable in your own skin. You don’t know what it's like to be someone you're not. You don’t know what it's like to be discriminated against. You don’t know what it's like to be told that you can’t love someone, that it's wrong to love someone. 

You don’t know how to peacefully protest. You don’t know how to be accepting of others. You don’t know what it's like to be scared for your future. You don’t know what it's like to be enraged by the state of your country, a country that once promised a better life for all. 

And maybe I don’t know all of these things. Maybe I am just a girl from the suburbs of Pennsylvania, but there are people who know these things. Americans know these things. And there is one thing for sure that I know and you don’t. I know empathy. 

With empathy and no respect, 

Giulia Mauro

Written by Giulia Mauro

Edited by Kaitie Sadowski and Julia Brummell

1. As a child, I had an ideal version of myself which I promised I’d achieve someday. She was so pale that snow could blend into her cheeks like concealer, and so thin that you could see where her tendons conjoined muscle and bone like puzzle pieces. Her hair was to her hips – silky, soft, and shiny like spring light reflecting into a freshly cleaned mirror. She is always the shortest one in the crowd. 

She acts no different from me. We have the same sense of quirks, the same fears, the same pasts, but entirely disconnected futures. 

2. “If you eat over 30 grams of sugar regularly, you’ll be at high risk for diabetes.” 

In seventh grade, my science teacher told that to our class. This was after I started getting sick regularly, throwing up into bushes, outdoor trash cans, and kitchen sinks. It was something uncontrollable – too much excitement or movement, and I’d spew vomit. I have a vivid memory of overhearing my sixth-grade best friend’s dad on the phone with her: “You shouldn’t invite Wendy to trick-or-treat this year. She always gets sick.” 

I became obsessed with the organs that I couldn’t see, harboring in a body that I had no control over. Pure red slush torturing me. I had a recurring nightmare of being on an operating table, happy that I was finally able to see what was wrong with me – chopped, gray cartilage, growing over my stomach lining like a virus. I was terrified. I thought of the body as a front door, and I pitied any soul that had to look inside of it almost as much as I pitied myself. There was a forest fire in my throat, the bristles of a pine tree carving scars into my tonsils and uvula, all the ash settling in my large intestine below. I imagine my organs twitching and twisting before eventually succumbing to stillness, like the plaster casts of lovers in Pompeii. 

Anyways, it’s funny how my dream body didn’t correlate to a healthy one, and funnier that I thought a stick-thin body and shiny hair could co-exist so peacefully. 

3. As a 20-year-old, some days are worse than others. I don’t get sick as often, but my body hurts constantly, and I try to pinpoint when it started. Is it from dance class? Did I sleep crooked during my nap? Is it an undiagnosed problem that I’ll never know the end of? Or is it all in my head? 

Regardless of its cause, I feel very, very old. And I’m always in pain, usually underneath my shoulder blades or in my knuckles. When I do something as simple as climbing a staircase, I feel winded. I feel my lungs gasping for air. I see stars, which really should be a beautiful thing, but it means that I feel vulnerable and weak. I know that I wouldn’t be able to defend myself if something bad happened, and I’m listless among a simulated night sky. 

4. If people are unsatisfied with your words or actions, it’s easy to blame the physical. Imagining that the body alone could make you worth something, or that it’s a lack thereof that makes you lesser than. That you could be a hollow husk and still have people tugging at your limbs. If my soul itself could be the front door, would my life be any different? 

5. I’m angry at my body. Not only is it unappealing, but it doesn’t work the way that it should. 

Written by Wendy Moore

Edited by Elisabeth Kay

Some of the kindest things people have said to me have actually hurt me the most. A girl that I don’t know super well approached me as we were leaving our dorm for a night out. She came up to me beaming and smiley, grinning from ear to ear, and said, “Oh my god, Liv! You look amazing! You’re so pretty in a female-gaze way! Like only girls get your kind of pretty,” My initial response was one of pride and joy. It feels good to be called pretty. It feels good to evade the male gaze. But beneath the sweet compliment, I couldn’t help but feel othered. To me, it felt like she was repeating a familiar refrain of “You’ll grow into your looks one day”. While this was something that adults constantly said to me as a kid in an attempt to comfort me, it nevertheless reminded me that my looks didn’t fit me right now. The first part of my body that grew were my legs. I was so uncoordinated as a kid, fit only for the water. While I love my hair now, I loathed it as a kid. When you see my mother, you are instantly transfixed by her long, thick, healthy, dark Italian hair. I hated my hair. I hated how it got knotted. I hated how it frizzed up. I hated when my bangs didn’t lay flat. I hated how dark it was, I wanted to be blonde. Everyone told me one day I would love my hair, and they’re right, but no one thought to remind me that I was pretty now. Pretty wasn’t unattainable; it was right there. 

These phrases echo throughout my head. I’ve never been directly called pretty. I went to an all-girls school, it wasn’t important to me. I wore my hair up every single day, wore my shapeless polo and knee-length skirt. I never was in search of beauty, I didn’t need to. I have beauty in every other aspect of my life. My friends, the sunsets I saw every night, my mother who doesn’t own any makeup. I dated in high school, I knew my partners found me pretty, and that was enough for me. Suddenly, I got to college, newly single, and was surrounded by people in search of beauty. I thought I should join the crusade for beauty. 

 I started wearing my hair down. I wore makeup and dark eyeliner to make my eyes pop. I tamed my hair by adding layers to maintain the frizz. I consciously thought about being pretty. I emerged from my all-girls school cocoon and metamorphosed into a butterfly. After never considering my looks, they were suddenly something I was hyperaware of. While my distant friend was kind and loving while she told me I was “pretty in a female gaze way,” I still felt different. Matters were made worse when one of my friends joined the conversation and told me how I was pretty in a unique way, different from the rest of my girlfriends. They pointed out how while the rest of my friends had long hair, my blunt bob is still beautiful. While they had cleavage to spare, my flat chest is still beautiful. How unique my style was. I was in shock. Suddenly, I realized how different I looked from the rest of my friends. I was self-conscious of my bangs. I thought my tattoos were too visible and masculine. My tattoos weren’t cute, dainty flowers, but my dad’s messy handwriting. 

I know my friend meant to compliment me and explain that I stand out. That “my kind of pretty” was just as good as everyone else’s. But I didn’t realize “my kind of pretty” was all that different. I think that no matter what people say about your looks, you always want what you can’t have. I’ve had my friends lament that they feel too basic, and here I am, complaining I’m too original. Everyone is pretty in their own way, and that’s okay. You don’t need to fit into someone’s beliefs about you, look how you want. Dress how you want. People don’t mean to hurt you, they just don’t know what you need to hear. Don’t wait for other people to see you for who you are, show them.

Written by Liv Kessler

Edited by Julia Brummell and Elisabeth Kay

Ode to the Acrobats

The vinyl squeaks beneath bare feet,

rimmed with sweat from the June humidity. The garage door

is open and the heat radiates

through my body as I try to catch my breath.

Jess yells 

again

and I hoist myself onto the metal bar,

curved and slick beneath my palms. It digs into my hips

leaving purple and green bruises that ache

every time I sit. Again

Jess yells once more. The women around me begin twirling

and dipping and flying through the air. I hold on

with all my might—stagnant. My bones beg

to rest after forty five minutes straight

of pure physicality.

It’s nothing like what you see on stage; the glamour.

Pain, 

failure, and

exhaustion

are the words that come to my mind. But it’s all

in the act. The great acrobat who never winces;

who makes it look easy.

Written by Leighton Curless

Edited by Julia Brummell