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Art by Rebecca Kartchner Beg for nightmares but I get dreams conniving Creep into my head Infectious thoughts twist My nerves into knots Wake to a world lacking Saccharine sweet The flat slapping drumbeat Of my heart, I breathe Stale airin solid walls Keep still in bed I Stall and hope its not Real, that this is The dream and soon I’ll wake to crashing Shores of subconscious Let my eyelids flutter

Art by Raven Tigerlily I’m so tired of pretending everything is fine when it’s not. It feels like I’m drowning in an endless sea of oppression, misery, and racism. People look over from their boats of white privilege, but don’t do anything to stop it. They see me, and the pain I’m in, and just stare in content. Their eyes now meet mine, but they don’t extend a hand. I scream without sound, swallowed by the waves.

“Fair hero and fallen maiden” by Toby There’s a slick shadow in the newsroom, eyes glinting like knives under fluorescent lights. It moves between the desks, all teeth and silence, drinking from the cup of swallowed voices. Politeness is its venom, slipped into smiles, dropped into meetings like sugar in poison. It hisses compliments that sting, and every nod tightens its coil. It doesn’t roar, it calculates. It doesn’t fight, it erases.

“Lovers” by Ellie Urbancic The sound of laughter and clinking glasses wafted through the open windows. The four stood amidst the overgrown shrubbery in one of the estate’s many gardens. Their many nights of watching and waiting were coming to an end. Seven women and five men were inside the manor. They were all nobles in the throes of youth, along with a few servants. They were well off enough to have a country estate to flee to, getting away from the deadly close quarters of the city.

“A heavenly body requires no heart” by Alex(a) Cruz-Abarca Her skin is icy cold to the touch and her lips are tinged with a light shade of blue. The warm lips I once partook in, that marked upon my every being, are changed. She leaves me here, bruised and battered from her absence. The once-green eyes gaze into my soul, yet she isn’t looking at me; her eyes have a sort of film over them.

“Heartsong” by Rebecca Kartchner A breeze unlatched a door down the hall from mine, once a respite from the contention at home, now a soulless remainder; vacated with a window left open. I wandered naively forward to investigate the draft, pulled in closer by adoration, sweet and deceitful. Now at the entrance of this temporary shelter, the once gentle air began to force me out, still I pressed my way in.

The alarm clock starts playing a nostalgic tune from Homeworld1. It’s quiet but gets progressively louder as I roll over in my bed, trying to find the mechanism to turn it off. My curled fingers bump into the button set into the wall near my bed, and I press firmly to let the alarm know I am awake. This action signals the dim lamps to pulse on. It is early, but I need the extra time to get ready for my guest this afternoon.

Art by Rebecca Kartchner You ever hear skin stretch? Not like a cut or scrape — I mean real, thick, human skin. The kind that takes effort. It sticks. It resists. But when it gives… it sounds like wet paper ripping. I still hear it sometimes, even when I’m alone. Especially when I’m alone. I was sixteen when I left. Eugene, Oregon. Nobody noticed. Not the neighbors. Not the teachers.

You are sitting at a table feet firmly planted on the grave of the Mother Pioneer amidst a million happy faces wondering why you aren’t working this event. You should be out of your chair, camera-in-hand, hunched over, squinting, browbeat by sun, sweat, observing this scene which you should not take part in because you are objective: That is, you are the objectified; you are the real starving artist

Content Warning: Sexual assult, Misogyny

Art by Toby I do not (yet) identify as asexual. However, the more I learn about the experiences of people who do, the more I wonder if there is a place on that spectrum where I might feel more seen and understood than among confidently allosexual people. Throughout my teen years, I attributed my lack of interest in boys, in conventionally attractive celebrities, in porn, and in sex to my adherence to a strictly puritanical religion and a history of adverse experiences with physical touch.

Photo by FFH I’ve become sickly, looking over my shoulder for a guy with a wide smile. Often strictly buisness clocked left and right left again, falling into brush. A prick from a rose bush as I regain my feet. If I blink fast enough, my eyes roll back, I get 2 seconds of release, a thief behind my eyelids prys me open again and again, I pause to say, “ I want away from this light.

Content Warning: Suicide

Art by Eclipse Our bodies are combinations of billions of organisms which take up highly specified tasks to keep our complicated bodies alive. The human form is beautiful in so many ways. Even though most of us have two hands, two eyes, and two legs, each of our bodies are an immense cocktail of human difference. Each one of us has features physical, biological, and chemical which make us unique from the 8 billion other humans on the planet.