Every Time by Alice Helliwell

I’m standing with her at a party and we’re holding hands. We’re chatting and laughing and over you come and assert yourself. You insert yourself into our bubble and offer yourself up on a plate. A ménage-à-trois you say, the “French speciality”, one not served in restaurants. You ignore me as I brush off your comments, and approach her again when I’m out of the way. I come over and you laugh at me, my concern mixed with fear a joke.Read More »

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Evolution of a Love Poem by Nadia Neman

I

I loved you before I knew who you were

before my eyes could form your image

your supple breast sustained me

pink

raw

you sustain me still

and for that, I’ll love you forever.

V

you said we were like sisters

velvet brown skin

I tried to kiss you once

with licorice breath

you said girls don’t kiss girls

I said okay.

XII

tall.

lanky.

acne scars

first boy I thought I loved

too plain for me now

too plain for me then

they told me I didn’t deserve much.

XVI

a forest’s shadow on your face

soft-spoken boy

I tried to kiss you once

to push through the brush

the evergreen

you said you don’t kiss girls

I said okay.

I wept.

XVIII

perfect skin,

hands,

lips

gentle and solid

soft and loud

first boy I truly loved

I jumped off a ledge for you

and tumbled down

I still

    haven’t

reached

    the ground.

XIX

I wanted to be done

cruel boy

I thought you loved me

I thought I loved you

a dull, constant pain

I never did love you

I hope your pain is sharp.

XX

soft,

curvy,

radiating

dream girl

I tried to kiss you once

in soft light’s glow

you said you don’t kiss girls

I said okay.

but I watched you walk away

your hips swinging like a hypnotist’s watch.


Nadia Neman is a student at the University of Richmond studying English, French, History, and Arabic. Her main area of study is early twentieth century literature and history, especially focusing on Arab, Francophone, and American literatures. She identifies as pansexual and enjoys delving into queer theory as often as her schedule allows.

I am not my vagina by Parker Diaz

My vagina didn’t become important until I realized I wasn’t a woman. As a woman, no one cared about my vagina unless they wanted to play with it or I wanted to run for office. But once I told everyone that I’m not a woman – well everybody wanted to get all up in there. They wanted to poke and prod and prove it was still there. They wanted to make sense of me, to categorize me, and my vagina was the key to the mystery.Read More »

Basketball Stories by Sean Noah Noah

This is a true story: I once rubbed my hands together and started a fire. I was around five and it was Jeffrey’s turn to take care of me and he insisted I wear a dress to the supermarket. Supermarkets are cold and I was angry. Rubbing my hands together didn’t really help: just part of an act of conspicuous misery. There were fits of shivering and chattering teeth; I gave myself goosebumps when I could manage it. Jeffrey understood and said nothing.Read More »

And the first time you meet her by Parker Diaz

And the first time you meet her you don’t meet in the traditional sense. You meet her in a few words sent across vast electronic space. All you know of her is a single message; you don’t even know if she’s even a her. You respond, polite, she responds, enthusiastic.

And then three days later you’re telling her things you’ve never told another living soul. There’s something about the air she emits even through the LED screen that makes you trust her. Your mother told you never to trust anyone on the internet but if there’s one person in the world you don’t trust it’s your mother.Read More »