wysteria way

Vida is a freshmen student at RASOTA in the Visual department. Outside of school, he plays in a rock band called Rukus, who have performed at Treefort Music Festival in Boise, The Verdi Club, and the RockBandLand castle. Vida enjoys long distance running and has competed in multiple half marathons and a 30k trail race. Running is how he destresses and recharges.

As an artist, Vida believes in the meaningfulness of using art to push for what you believe in, and finds studying history to be fascinating and important. 

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.

love will always remain.

and so maybe loving 

was a mistake, when passion,

described as messy feeling,

is compressed into a single word,

maybe they could have called me 

a lover 

if I hadn't once felt 

the virgin touch of 

expectation on my skin,

of purpose as people,

of reasoning beyond 

what is said

when words could hurt more than 

just an identity.

maybe loving out loud

is too much for one to take,

because under the skin I sew,

making amends to what I could have been,

there is hope of who I could have loved,

when the world was more than just 

a compass of sin 

and a state of blank faith.

and maybe it will always remain.

starvation,

forced upon broken characters,

will always remain,

always urge,

always persist

upon shut doors

and hands drawn in close 

to my chest.

and within aftermath

and resistance 

and sorrow,

i still can’t seem to 

pull words back in.

love will only let me so far.

Alexa Grospe is a fiction writer, poet, and playwright from San Francisco who currently attends Ruth Asawa School of the Arts for creative writing. Her work often emphasizes the pain behind silent voices and her fascination with human connection. 

“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

(Visha, Saskia, and Silas are sitting in Silas’s room. All three are on their phones. Visha is sitting on the sofa, Silas is sprawled out on a chair, and Saskia is on the floor. Silas looks up.)

SILAS

Did you know that the suicide rate for trans teens is 1 in 3?

(They all stare at each other in uncomfortable silence for a moment.)

SASKIA

Silas, what? Why?

SILAS

Why, what? Why do I know that? I just looked it up.

VISHA

Dude, why would you do that?

SILAS

Why not?

SASKIA

But like, why? Did you just think, like, hm, I’m trans. Both my best friends are trans. I should know who’s going to survive until adulthood? You thought that just, like, randomly? With no prompting? Are you on Pinterest again?

SILAS

No, I was just curious. You know, I wanna know what my chances are at survival. It’s looking pretty grim, don’t you think?

SASKIA

Seriously?

VISHA

You know what’s really grim? Statistically, one of us is going to commit suicide soon.

(beat)

You know, because there’s three of us, and 1 in 3 trans teens commits suicide, so one of us—

SASKIA

Yeah, Visha, we get it, we just don’t want to.

VISHA

Why? I bet it’s you. (Beat.)

SASKIA

Excuse me? Why would you think that? If anything, I think it’s you!

VISHA

Why— Why would you think that? I wouldn’t—I would never, not like you! You’re the most defensive of us all, you’re the most responsible, and you don’t really talk about your feelings, so we both know it you’re the one who’s going to commit suicide! It’s obvious, Saskia.

(Visha looks at Silas to back them up.)

SILAS

Wait, don’t bring me into this. I don’t wanna be involved with your bickering.

SASKIA

(To Silas) Shut up, you’re the one who looked up the suicide rate for us randomly! You’re already involved! And you know what, I bet Silas is going to commit suicide!

VISHA

Saskia, you can’t deflect. Although, that would make sense…

SILAS

No it doesn’t! There—there’s nothing that should make you say that. I’m not—Saskia, you’re deflecting!

SASKIA

It’s not deflecting if it’s true!

VISHA

Uh, that kind of is… still deflecting?

SILAS

See! It’s not me—I would never. It’s you, Saskia! You’re the one who’s gonna die! Or—or maybe it’s you, Visha! Both of you!

VISHA

Hey, I’m not a part of this, and I’m not the closed off one, and I’m not the one who’s borderline terrified of setting boundaries, and I’m not the one who’s gone so far into play-pretend that I forgot who I really am!

(Silence. Visha, Silas, and Saskia all stare at each other, wide-eyed.)

SILAS

Okay, wait, let’s think about this logically. We’re not the only three trans people in the world. If there’s another group of three trans people, and two of them kill themselves, then two out of six people kill themselves, and so then none of us die! We’re arguing about nothing.

VISHA

Okay, but what if we’re the group with two people that commit suicide? Then I’ll be alone, and you’ll both be dead! We can’t just ignore the statistic because it might not happen, because it could happen even worse than we expected! Both of you are hiding the truth—

SASKIA

I’m not hiding the truth, you are! I’m not the one who’s denying being suicidal—

VISHA

Yes, you are!

SASKIA

And Silas, do you think it’s better if none of us die? Are we hoping two random kids that we don’t know will commit suicide so we don’t have to? Doesn’t that make us cowards?

SILAS

What? No, we’re not cowards for wanting to live. Do you think commiting suicide makes you brave?

SASKIA

What? No, I don’t—I don’t think—

VISHA

I told you, I told you, Saskia’s gonna die! And then Silas will die, and then I’ll be alone, and I don’t wanna be alone—why do you guys have to be suicidal? Why can’t it be—

(Visha stops abruptly, shaking. They cover their mouth, looking like they’re trying not to cry.)

SASKIA

Visha? Are you—

VISHA

I’m fine. I–I’m fine. It’s you, it’s you, both of you—

SILAS

Visha, calm down, you’re okay. You’re okay. We’re all— we’re okay.

(Silas moves to sit next to Visha and tries to put a hand on their shoulder, but they scramble away. Saskia watches this interaction, looking like she’s also on the verge of tears.)

VISHA

Don’t touch me! D–Don’t touch me, I know it’s you!

(Visha squeezes their eyes shut and scoots as far away from Silas as possible. They curl into a ball.)

VISHA

(sobbing)

I’m sorry, I’m s–sorry, it’s not me, I’m not crying because it’s not me, it’s Silas it’s Saskia, Saskia please don’t kill yourself—

SASKIA

(yelling)

Shut up, Visha! Shut up! You don’t know what you’re talking about! It’s not me! Would you just shut up!

(Stunned silence. Saskia is shocked that she exploded. She puts a hand to her mouth, shaking. Visha looks up, face tearstained, but eerily calm.)

SASKIA

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean—

SILAS

Saskia… It is you, isn’t it?

SASKIA

What? N–no. No, it’s not me, it’s Visha—

VISHA

It’s not me, I already told you it’s not me, Saskia we know it’s you—

SILAS

Visha, stop it. It’s both of you. Of course it is. Of course we’re in the friend group with the two deaths, of course! How am I going to react when you die? How do I survive when I’m the only person who’s not sad enough to die? What if I don’t cry, you can’t leave, you can’t leave me—

SASKIA

Maybe it’s you, Silas!

(Silas visibly recoils.)

SILAS

What?

SASKIA

You sound exactly like Visha, you know. Both of you are going on about how you’re upset that the two of us are gonna die, even though we’re not, even though you can’t know that. But you both—you both sound jealous. 

(beat)

That’s it, isn’t it? Both of you are jealous. Of people who may or may not commit suicide. Doesn’t that make you suicidal yourself?

(Beat. Then Visha exhales and wipes away their tears.)

VISHA

I think we’re ignoring the fact that we can’t base our lives on a statistic.

SILAS

I don’t think that was the point.

SASKIA

Visha, are you actually…jealous?

VISHA

N-no. No, of course not, I told you—

SILAS

Visha, stop. Don’t lie.

VISHA

But—

SASKIA

Okay, how about this? We all say how we’re feeling, and then we promise that none of us will commit suicide, and then we pretend it never happened and move on. We’ll pretend we don’t know what we told each other. Does that sound good?

(A beat, then Silas and Visha nod.)

SASKIA

Okay. Okay. Visha, you go first.

(Visha takes a deep breath, balls their hands into fists, and looks down.)

VISHA

Okay. I’m feeling… I’m feeling sad. And like everything is scary, and it’s too loud, and it’s too much, and also… I feel hopeless. Like, why am I here? To pretend to have some sort of connection to other people, to pretend to be alive? To be misgendered every day of my life? To be afraid to move out even though my parents are transphobic? I don’t… I don’t know. I’m just—I’m just really tired. And um. That’s it. So.

(Visha breathes and sniffles. They are visibly shaking, and they wipe away tears.)

SILAS

Visha…

VISHA

No. No reacting. I’m–I’m fine. Who’s next?

SASKIA

Silas?

(Silas runs his hand through his hair and looks down. He exhales.)

SILAS

Ugh. Fine, okay. I’m feeling… I don’t know what I’m feeling. I guess, I just don’t know, like, anything? Like, about myself? I’m just, like, a void? Of endless confusion? I don’t know. But I feel empty, but also I feel like… I don’t deserve to be empty. I don’t deserve the things I’m feeling, because like… Visha has transphobic parents, Saskia is the mom of the group, and I’m trans but it’s like… I’m fine. I don’t know why I’m not fine!

(Silas puts his hand to his mouth, trying not to cry. He fails miserably. Visha opens their mouth, trying to speak, but Silas cuts them off before they can.)

No, you can’t say anything. If you’re allowed to say we can’t react, so am I. Saskia, it’s your turn.

(Saskia hesitates, then presses her hand to her face.)

SASKIA

Fine. Fine! Okay. I feel… like I’m pretending to do… everything. Pretending to be… be like, a person, like I feel like everyone got lessons on how to be a human and I just missed it, and I’m tired of feeling distant from everyone, like I’m rotten, like I’m a fraud, like I’m just… not human. And I feel like everyone is getting these big stories of companionship, and I was raised on fairy tales, and now I’m realizing it was never realistic, and I hate it. I hate… knowing that I’ll never get anything I dreamed about. I’m tired of–of dreaming. Of being human. Of… living.

(Long pause where everyone stares at each other. Saskia exhales and puts her mom face back on.)

Okay, we’ve all trauma dumped. Now we pretend this never happened.

SILAS

(shaky, but with a wry smile)

Pretend what never happened?

SASKIA

That’s the spirit.

VISHA

Okay, but what…what if that wasn’t enough? Like to stop… stop someone from… from…

SASKIA

(quickly, obviously lying)

Well, I feel better. Dunno about you, but I think this definitely was enough. For me, at least. But you’re–you’re right. Okay, let’s just all swear on our lives that we won’t commit suicide, and then it’ll be–it’ll be fine.

SILAS

So… you want us to swear… on our lives… that we’re not gonna die…

SASKIA

Yes, exactly. It’ll work, I promise. Plus, I trust you guys. You’re my best friends in the whole world. If we all promise on our lives that we mean everything to each other and we won’t die, then we’ll be fine. So. I’ll start. I love you guys more than anything else in the world. I can’t live without you. Please don’t die. But also, I can survive… for as long as I can… which is forever! Okay? I promise not to die, and I love you both. 

SILAS

Um. Okay. I love you guys more than anything, too. I can’t live without you. Please don’t die. But also, I can survive… for as long as I can… which is forever! Okay? I promise not to die, and I love you both.

(Saskia glares at Silas and Silas sticks out his tongue.)

VISHA

Um. My turn. Uh, I love you guys, and I can’t live without you, and please don’t die and I won’t die either and we’ll all be okay—

(Visha’s voice breaks. Silas puts an arm around their shoulder and they lean into him. Saskia sits next to Silas and puts her head on him as well.)

SASKIA

We’re all going to be fine. See, Silas, we beat the statistic.

SILAS

That’s true—we must have transferred the statistic to some other friend group. Poor friend group.

(Visha crosses their fingers behind their back.)

VISHA

At least we’re all gonna live.

Blackout.

End play.

Kavi Nielsen 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.