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I spent 20 days alone while abroad this summer, during which time I had ample opportunity to think about reading; I spent more time thinking about reading than actually reading. I read a lot, between 75 and 100 books per year.
The first time I saw my Dad cry
We were standing in a raspberry field.
My fingers were covered in crimson juice,
fresh and sweet and slightly sticky.
That morning the TV wouldn’t stop repeating
Pictures of smoke, planes flying into the towers.
In the era of body positivity and radical self-love, the notion that “no one can love you until you love yourself” is, for many of us who struggle deeply to love ourselves by virtue of depression, anxiety, or the various other forms of mental illness, an unjust sentencing. At its core, the intention is pure.
JUST GIRLY THINGS: a Horror Checklist of Real and Surreal Thoughts from Poetic Hell
Here lies a body of words which arrived at my window one night in jagged fragments and forced me to make their cacophony into a less than sophisticated arrangement of reverbs:
In this February season of saccharine serenades and pink paper hearts, the term “love language” seems to pop up everywhere. Just as banner ads dare you to discover your own love language through quizzes, media organizations dissect the theory in articles about millennial dating. I’ve taken time to consider what my own love language might be.
In the first official introduction to Hues, Lizz and Marwah are joined by special guest Zyahna Bryant -- renowned student activist, community organizer, and University of Virginia first-year student.
Y’all cannot understand how much work and excitement and time has gone into this project.
Maybe this TRAILER will help. Please watch and spread the word.
The silver metallic ink may have faded a bit, but the words are still clearly visible: “For Abby ~ Travellin’ Music.” The precisely formed letters immediately evoke visions of sentences diagrammed on whiteboards, answer keys created together and shared, a teaching partnership of mutual encouragement and competition.
Last month I found myself sitting around a stranger’s kitchen table with a group of sexual assault survivors and co-conspirators, plotting.
I’ve never really felt ashamed to sing. My mom sang to me as a kid, and I remember quietly humming along to her rendition of "She’ll Be Comin’ ‘Round the Mountain” nightly. Alongside her soothing voice, I lullabied myself to sleep. I have the same habit as my mom, singing mindlessly while doing various tasks.
“You’re too little,” my cousin Kelsey said, pushing my cousins and me out of the Green Room at my grandpa’s house before she slammed the door and locked it.
It’s no secret that I am a sucker for a good romantic comedy or teenage coming-of-age movie. Both of these genres tend to operate on themes of innocence and hope, something that the world could use a little bit more of.