wysteria way

What is your name?

Your name was Stubborn, the kid who would have to be told more than once every time, their screams growing louder and louder yet you hold on to your convictions so tight against your chest.

Your name was Restless, the kid who refused to go to sleep, because “he wasn't tired”, and yet they told him if he didn't, he’d be naughty, and that he would be tired eventually anyway. He didn't listen.

Your name was Strange, because everyone else drew their Abraham Lincoln coloring page with white skin, black hair, and nothing else, while you took almost half a box of crayons and went wild on him. They hung them up in rows and yours stuck out like a multi-colored pimple on a stubbled peach cheek. 

Your name was Blessing, because you were cherished, a miracle from God, Momma said. Dad simply chuckled and played along with the notion.

Your name was Disgusting, because you’d also said vile things that caused you to chug your own mind’s poison, causing many a despair to drown in and much sorrow to be had. 

Your name was Curious, the kid that sometimes wandered around, ending up in places he shouldn't have, or finding things he’d never seen before.

You had many names back then.

What is your name now? 

It's whatever you say it is. Because you get to decide your name, really. Through your actions, your decisions, you get to choose. Not someone else.

Stop responding to names that hold no power over you.

Or, change those names' meanings for you, redefine what it means to be weird, to be stubborn, or to be strange. 

So go,

 make yourself a name,

Make it something you want to answer too

 till your dying days.

What does it mean to answer names? And who decides which ones stick and which ones don't? It is definitely more complicated then it seems. 

inspired by “Twisting at my birthday party, NYC” photographed by Nan Goldin

that is not a star. that looks like a menstrual cup.

IT’S A STAR!!

when i was younger, i climbed california oak trees

in yellow, maybe malnourished fields.

i didn’t care about the bugs,

or if the sun’s strength would burn my skin.

how the cold would kiss my body,

whether or not it would kill me with its hypothermic grasp,

like when i was a baby in the northern new york thunderstorms.

so i’d leave jackets and sunscreen behind in my mother’s arms.

i didn’t bother with the thought of illness,

all responsibility was far from my hands,

and my future was a foreign concept.

can someone play some music right now? it will help me focus.

you should pick the music, you have really good music taste.

sat on the carpet of your basement beneath the stairs,

scissors scattered across the floor,

paper and patches buried into the black cushioned couch.

hairspray hangs around our heads,

our spring allergies lick eyeliner off of our eyes.

listen to the song of cigarette smoke and setting spray

harmonizing with the shit-quality punk mixtape.

each song probably pirated,

screaming from the sound system.

i love all of the songs on this.

i think this mixtape was made for you.

i don’t know what kind of things expect me in the coming years.

i don’t know what kind of things sit patiently

like dogs at the doorway, waiting for me to turn

the glimmering, but somehow still rusting knob.

maybe that's for the better.

Luna. I feel like a sham or a poison to you. The way I feel about you is toxic, and I know that. I have begun to think hating you would be the best option for both of us. But I can’t leave you, not after those messages, not after 2 years of trying to distance myself from you, and not after 5 years of being your best friend.  I cherish you too much.

 I like to think that the things that weren’t originally supposed to be art are the most beautiful. I see you like that as well. I love you like those pieces of art. You were never mine, I don’t think I’ve ever wanted you to be mine, I just wanted you here but I don’t deserve that. 

My anxiety sees you like a baby animal it must protect. That's unfair to you. I can’t stop, god I want to but that won’t happen, at least not yet. It wants to see you as a perfect and naive being and every time you do something human, it only breaks and corrupts that same feeling more, making it more possessive and defensive. I have been told many times to stop being your friend, I’ve agreed with those people as well yet I can’t. Because you are the personification of my soul and you are the reason I believe in soulmates. 

I hate the choices you’ve made. The people you want to be around because it’s so blatantly obvious that they are shitty people and after every time you finally realize that and leave, you say you change. You never do, you always fall back into that same pattern and I have to force myself to stay as quiet as I can, which isn’t very quiet. I cried to my dad about this yesterday. He told me the same thing I’ve been told for years now, things I’ve understood my whole life. You are your own person and I need to let you grow and learn. But I worry that you won’t at this rate and that's ok. I don’t want it to though but I don’t want to force you to do anything.

 I know you’ll forgive me which only makes me feel worse, makes me feel like all the horrible people you have forgiven. I want you to understand that I don’t want to be forgiven in that way. I want to earn it but I don’t trust you enough that you’ll be able to. I Love you, I love you so much but it feels so wrong to even be around you. I’ll turn this into a poem and add it to the collection of poems about you but never for you. I’ll cherish it but feel ashamed of it.

To the precious lady in waiting,

My deepest apologies, dear girl.

Had I not been so selfish, 

The flowers would’ve wept sweet nectar

 from its home in its flesh

But for you, my dear, 

I am nothing but a cruel, cruel man.

I’ll drag you to the depths of these burning flames, 

Your voice a gentle lamb calling for its mother.

For a moment, I felt a sense of pity wiggle 

Into this rotting heart of mine.

My hellish voice will taunt you,

As will these slaves of the forsaken.

This love of mine is a thorn,

And as you realize this,

You’ll see that spring won't come back for you. 

Bailey really likes spaghetti, DC comics, and Jean Kirstein. She also loves to study humanties and write.

to look like everything

and everyone

a goal no one will ever achieve

because there has never been anything

That looked like everything and everyone 

however 

the concept of feeling

like the monstrous roads,

like the messy easel,

is always there

there is always someone who feels like everything and everyone

yet nothing

and no one

and something beyond that

The feeling is fleeting yet lingering and looping

over and over

down to the worms in the mud and

the quilts on the moon claiming to be symbols

this longing emotion is an itchy friendship of faux hatred 

but at the same time a happy union to our desperation for identity

Harper Gong is an artist that doesn't know what art even is. But that's okay because, now, they are a student at RASOTA in Creative Writing.

they want to put an egg on the sun

scream why lust at lie has less for my tongue 

see my deep mean ache ing river 

no day of forest use s water 

poet s do not make water 

I will picture sordid still mother 

some thing we use to beat through 

when our milk women shadow ship 

we trudge d by arm 

never mad but sing ing about after shine 

boil my eden at sweat y meat who se blood let 

could pant and pound on me 

please never walk over his rock 

delirious crush ed language live & light light s rust as you 

fall away urge ing some elaborate boy 

but blow soft pink was 

always a chocolate ly blanket black like the 

raw sleep r she love s 

finger fruit & smooth purple time ing 

but did want er ly worship go about 

gorgeous 

said his spring song music 

how is there no symphony

Recent research by journalist Jessica Kant reveals that Fox News publishes the most articles about transgender people in the country. Significantly more than even the publications that specifically focus on LGBTQ+ topics. (Like this one!)  While we appreciate the progress in representation, especially by our very own president's favorite news station, I'm sure there are like, at least a couple other things happening in the world? Or are we not supposed to talk about that stuff? All I have to say about that is, mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn   Andmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm - What? My editor is calling sorry… He told me I should stop talking! But I think that mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm we we mmmmmmmmmm Can, mmmmmmmmmmmmmTrust themmmmmmmmmmmm Government!

Anyways, 

  Our girl Kant ran keywords and different terminologies pertaining to trans people through a dataset and studied the patterns. She found that since 2023, Fox News has run more articles referencing transgender people annually than there are days in the year. Pride is not nearly long enough for us to make a comeback— we only have a month! If someone messaged another person that amount of times, they would file for a restraining order on grounds of obsessive stalking, and then the cops would tell the female victim there's nothing they can do, because she’s being kinda hysterical. Until she gets stabbed in the throat. But they would feel bad after that. Trust me, the memorial would be gorgeous. 

Flattery quickly replaced by concern escalating into fear, because none of our self esteems are high enough to believe we are really that special. 

Kant references the theory of confirmation bias. This refers to people’s tendency to interpret evidence selectively, seeking out information that affirms their preconceptions. Scientists have found that the human brain has a limited capacity for large piles of data presented, so this adaptation serves as an efficient shield to conflicting beliefs that may be uncomfortable to explore. Ironically, they have no problem exploring when it comes to the genres of videos they browse… It's almost as if the only context in which they interact with queer people is on platforms which degrade and humiliate for purposes of pleasure. Surely that wouldn’t warp their perception of real people though, right? It's not like they’ve ever tried to control people's bodies due to ignorance and sexualisation before. In fact people are probably so inspired by fashion statements of divas embracing queerness, that's why coat hanger sales are seeing such a boost! In the case of people consuming Fox News, the emphasis on absurd headlines and blatant misinformation combined with the unifying effect of the “Common Enemy” has created a mass movement with no basis in reality. 

So are conservatives just obsessed with trans people? Not quite, the topic is simply what they have chosen to use as a diversion to captivate the public. This way they will be blind to the signs of rising fascism bubbling under the surface, and any negative side effects to the people in power’s selfish actions can be blamed on the already feared and hated. It is a manufactured brainwashing that is being repeated throughout history, each time selecting a different scapegoat. So no, it's not about trans people (Sadly we are not special), it's about maintaining power over people by way of divisive manipulation. 

Kant, Jessica. “Jessica Kant.” Jessica Kant, 8 Feb. 2026, jessk.org/blog/architecture-of-an-outrage-factory.

“Leo?”

Your breath hitches, and you blink, sitting up straight. “What?” You dangle your legs off the edge of Melanie’s kitchen counter, something you’ve done since you were old enough to climb atop it. 

Your friend laughs. With you, at you, it doesn’t particularly matter. Her dark curls bounce as her head shakes. “Try to stay with me, okay?”

You nod, watching as she returns to rummaging through a large bag filled with her mother’s old clothes. Melanie. 21 years, 3 months old. 5 feet, 4 inches tall. Loud. Always wears lilac perfume. “Do you like this?” Melanie asks, holding up a shirt that’s the color of daffodils and has ruffled sleeves. You can’t remember her mother ever wearing it, nor why she would want to.

“No?”

Melanie sighs, and tosses it into the large box marked goodwill. “Me neither. God, she had so much stuff I never knew about.” She raises a sombrero from somewhere under a mound of clothes. It’s smashed in on one side, and fraying, but Melanie seems to have trouble handing it to you. You wonder when her mother got it.

You run your fingers along the embroidered ribbon that’s tied around the hat. Ever since the funeral, more and more relatives keep procuring boxes of Melanie’s mother’s things. With each box, you can tell that Melanie sinks a little bit deeper.

Carefully, you balance the sombrero on your head, and wrap a light green scarf around your neck. “Don’t I look fabulous?” 

Melanie glances up. “Give me those.” Her voice sounds more tired and strung-out than you’ve ever heard it, but at least she smiles. After a few more minutes of her working and your procrastinating, she looks up again. “I’m sure there’s something you’d rather do than pretend to help me.”

“Got me there,” you say, dropping to stand on the cool kitchen tiles. You raise an eyebrow at her. “Hungry?”

She opens her mouth, then closes it. “Let me finish first.”

“I’ll make you a sandwich.” 

“Turkey, cheese–”

“–and tomato. I know.” You grin, and open the refrigerator. Silence returns, and you feel glad that so far you’ve successfully avoided the enormous elephant in the room.

Melanie’s mother died in May. The funeral was in June, a week after she died. They had it in the town graveyard, when the dogwood trees were still in bloom. You remember how your white dress matched the flower petals littering the long grasses. 

For the rest of the summer, you had planned to keep Melanie smiling, until she announced she was flying to Brazil, and wouldn’t be back until the end of August, when she had to leave for sophomore year of college. So you hadn’t seen her for four months–and were not particularly keen on explaining how you spent the summer she spent grieving with her family in South America.

First off, there was this girl.

Secondly, you had met her at the funeral. 

Thirdly, and perhaps the worst of the three: you had barely thought about Melanie all summer, because the girl filled every inch of space available in your head. Now you couldn’t even think of Melanie without thinking of her.

the tall grass ripples, as though the soft slope of the hill is breathing. the sun bore down upon the funeral ceremony, and you watched from a safe distance away, hidden beneath a drooping oak. you watched as Melanie cried onto her father’s shoulder, and thought about whether or not you should rejoin them. 

were you a bad person if you didn’t? you had to wonder. 

a faint sniff makes you glance over your shoulder. you see a girl standing a few feet away, pearly tears trailing down her pale cheeks. 

“who are you?” you ask curiously.

the girl turns to look at you, visibly surprised. “Quinn.” she says. her freckles stand out against her fair skin, and wisps of platinum hair curl across her face. she squints a pair of green eyes. “who are you?”

“Leona,” you answer, though everyone calls you Leo.

“Leona,” she repeats, as though testing the word on her tongue. “nice to meet you.” the traces of her tears glitter on her cheeks, but she makes no attempt to wipe them away. 

“why are you crying?” you ask, then cringe. of course people cry at a funeral. only, you’ve never seen her before, and the ceremony was rather small, so how could she have been invited?

Quinn’s answer takes you by surprise. “am i?” she slowly reaches up and touches her face. A small smile creeps onto her lips. she meets your eyes. “i guess i like being reminded that i can.”

you frown. “cry?” 

she nods. “yeah.” 

she doesn’t say anything else, though you wait for her to. 

the sounds of the ceremony ending brings your attention back to the hill. 

“here.” she says, suddenly, and you turn to see her holding out her hand. “a parting gift.”

it’s a small rock with a hole carved through the center. it looks suspiciously like the same material as the headstone Quinn is leaning on.

“are you allowed to take that?” you ask, eyeing the crumbling grave. 

she just smiles. “i’m sure Hazel Q. Briar won’t mind.”

“We should go somewhere,” you say, returning to your counter perch with a sandwich in hand. You take a bite and watch as Melanie considers the idea, before nibbling at the crust of her own. Another thing about her, she never eats before someone else takes a mouthful. “Just the two of us– or we could bring some people. See who’s in town?” You stare pointedly at the sweatpants and old t-shirt you haven’t seen her without in several days. “You need to get out and do something, Mel.”

“Fine!” Melanie says, duct-taping a box shut and shoving it into the corner. “When I’m done with sorting this, we can go somewhere. But you’re paying.”

You grin. “I wouldn’t expect anything else.” You watch as her dark curls fall down her back, and her coffee-colored face twists in concentration. You’re quite certain she hasn’t showered in a while. Yet, her brown eyes are warm and bright, and her lips shine with chapstick. You wish you could get her to smile like she always used to, big and unapologetic.

Melanie catches you watching her. She winks and blows you a kiss. 

You remember why she’s your best friend.

0 0 0

Round tables have been pushed to the walls of the club in clumps, leaving room for the sea of people that dance in the middle of the room. Melanie slips her hand into yours, and you squeeze it reassuringly. You can already tell from the light in her eyes that she’ll be having the time of her life in a few short minutes, while you stand awkwardly near the wall, sipping on something that tastes mildly disgusting. 

You wade into the crowd, still holding hands. Reaching the bar, you order two matching drinks that are an alarming shade of red and predictably taste like burnt cherry. People talk around you, and though Melanie continues to stick faithfully by your side as the minutes tick by, you can see the way she eyes the dance floor, and the grinning people that spin on it.

You nudge her shoulder. Her eyes are lined with glittering gold.

“Go.” You say. This is why you brought her here. “I’m fine.” 

Her eyebrows knit uncertainly. “You sure?”

You nod. She leans over and presses a quick kiss to your cheek, before vanishing into the darkness. Carefully, you reach up and touch what is sure to be a dark lipstick stain on your face. You consider leaving it there, but suddenly the noise and lights are overwhelming, and you need to leave. Thankfully, the bathroom is starkly quiet and bright. 

In the mirror you wipe away the red smudge on your cheek, but are dismayed when it leaves a ruddy mark. You open your small handbag, searching for something to cover it.

After fruitless rummaging, your fingers curl around something that sits at the bottom of your purse, something that is not makeup, something you were sure you had flung out into the rain, never to be seen again. Your heart lurches.

The bathroom door swings open.

fat droplets of rain drench your yard as the two of you sit hip to hip on the back porch steps. almost dreamlike, she reaches out her hand to touch the curtain of falling water, and smiles as the rivulets run down her freckled arms. you watch her tip her face to the warm wind and smile. “i love thunderstorms.” she says. “it’s like the world is tearing itself apart.” 

you hum in agreement, though you’re not sure if you agree. 

“Leona,” she says, suddenly. “why am i here?” 

you frown. “why shouldn’t you be?”

she shakes her head. “why am i here? why are you here? why did the events that led us here happen?”

“oh.” you say. “one of those questions.”

she wrinkles her nose. “so?”

you sigh, and shrug helplessly. “i don’t know, Quinn.”

she stares out into the rain. “that’s the problem.”

“the problem?” you echo. “what problem?”

she turns suddenly, her short hair flying across her eyes. a flash of lightning casts the cavities of her eye sockets and cheeks in dramatic shadow. “i shouldn’t be here.”

“what?” you ask. “why? where did that come from?”

she stands up, still shaking her head. “this doesn’t work. we don’t work.”

you stand up too. “why not?” you step forward. she moves away from you, eyes darting toward the rain. 

“don’t follow me,” she says. before she can leave, you reach out to grab her arm, but she’s too fast. her pale silhouette vanishes moments later, so regardless of if you had wanted to run after her, you no longer know where to run. you fall back down to the steps, stupefied, and stare at the sky. in your pocket, you find the small round rock Quinn gave you in june. for a moment, you study it. then you throw it as far as you can, and go back inside the house, not watching to see where it lands.

“Leona?”

Your head snaps up, and you find the reflection of a pair of eyes in the mirror, but they aren’t the dark color that yours are and have always been. These eyes are brilliant green. Her name slips from your mouth. “Quinn?”

“Yes,” she says softly, but you don’t—can’t—turn around. “It’s me, Leona. I—”

You punch the top of the sink’s automatic faucet, so that the sound of rushing water drowns out Quinn’s voice. Your eyes go back to your own reflection, one of your hands tightly gripping the edge of the sink. She’s the only one who’s ever called you Leona. It’s always Leo, this, Leo, that. Leona.

You imagine Melanie somewhere under the lights outside, drink in hand, dancing. Laughing. What would she make of this? Probably, she’d compare it to a rom com, something to poke fun at while gushing over the stupid way the couple smiles at each other. You wonder how easily you could escape the bathroom and find Melanie and get away.

But do you really want to?

You dart a glance at Quinn’s reflection. Instead of smiling, she’s watching you like you’ve seen her watch other things; things that fascinate her enough that she has to be careful not to touch them for fear of ruining their beauty. “Leona,” Quinn repeats your name, and is suddenly standing next to you. Her pale hand joins yours on the porcelain surface of the sink, though she’s careful not to touch your skin. Almost ghost-like.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice that she looks the same as always. Her hair hasn’t even grown, the fluffy blonde waves just brushing her shoulders. She isn’t wearing makeup, and yet she looks flawlessly beautiful. It’s beyond irritating. “Why did you leave?” You manage to say. Your fingers clutch the small rock that is somehow in your purse. Once upon a time you knew every ridge and crevasse of it, the way the granite hit the light and sparkled.

Quinn’s expression saddens and she bites her lip. “I couldn’t stay.”

You glare at the mirror. “Why not? We were happy! I was happy!”

She hangs her head. “So was I,” she says. “But I couldn’t stay.” The whisper of a touch frightens you, and you glance down to find that Quinn has rested her hand on top of yours. “You didn’t want me anymore,” she says. “But I missed you.”

A small tear slips down your cheek. You missed her too. You miss her, still. But the memories are all woven together, good and bad. “We didn’t work,” you say, echoing what she said to you on that day in the rain. You remember a hundred little moments; the ginkgo leaves in her hair, the yelling in coffee shops, the stargazing, the long silences and cold glares. “We were messy and confused and we didn’t understand each other—”

Quinn exhales quietly. “I love you.” 

You let out a shaky laugh, even as the three words burn a hole in your mind. “But what does that mean? We barely even kissed, like real people are supposed to—”

The warmth on your hand vanishes, and you watch, wide eyed, as Quinn’s reflection presses her lips to your cheek. A smile crawls up her pale face and her eyes sparkle as she whispers in your ear.

Startled, your fingers fumble for the small rock, and it slips through them, clattering into the sink before disappearing down the drain. You turn to face Quinn, to apologize for the stone, to question further, but she isn’t there. 

Slowly, you reach up to touch your cheek, the place where she kissed you, right on top of the lipstick smudge. You watch your eyes in the mirror as the echo of her last words fills the empty bathroom. Although you are completely alone, it’s as though her breath still tickles your skin.

Aurelia Preskill is a marvelous overlord. See About Us for more information

I am my ancestor's wildest dreams. But where did mine go?

Are dreams selfish?

Is dreaming for you selfish?

I was told to fight for my community, 

make my people proud,

take back what was taken. 

I am my ancestors’ dream,

But I have to hide my selfish dreams and, 

support those dreams who are selfless.

Throw away my wants 

of a new body, 

to change how those see me,

to fight for my freedom,

to be who I want

after being trapped in this box on what it means to make 

real change,

and make changes for just me.

But that’s selfish, isn’t it?

To be greedy is a sin,

but sin oozes out of my pores,

runs down my body in every squeamish way,

I disgust you, and I find joy in that. 

The way you face quirks when you're disgusted by me.

To want more and more and more of you, and everything that makes you. 

Is that sin?

Selfishness? 

Because I’ve never needed dreams—

everything that I’ve ever needed has been fought for already,

and I need to stand there like it’s enough, 

but it’s simply not enough.

and I starve for more.

but that's selfish

right?

If my poems don’t talk about the world crumbling around me,

and not the world inside of me,

Is that selfish?

If I don’t use all the ink in my pen,

all the led in my pencil,

to speak up for those without a voice

when I have been lucky enough to have one,

and instead speak up for me,

is that selfish?

Is this poem that you are scanning with your eyes selfish?

When the world is crumbling around me,

it doesn't matter if I'm crumbling like everyone else 

because that's what they want, but I don't know how to stop. 

Is it selfish to be tired when that's what they want?

When they're so good at what they do

and I don't know how to push against the grain,

because it was assumed that I knew how to do so, 

but I don't.

Is my exhaustion selfish?

I’m my ancestor’s dream,

and my dreams are deferred to be someone else.