Life suddenly flowed all around her. Girls, girl-colors: pink, blue, white, black. Hair flicking and flashing, laughs and gasps and the glow

“SEXUALITY IS OFTEN THE SOURCE of our deepest oppression,” stated Anne Finger, a disability activist.[1] Finger, like many other people with disabilities, faces conflicting expectations and stereotypes surrounding her queer and disabled identity. While the LGBTQ and disability rights movements have succeeded in many social changes, researchers have failed to adequately explore the intersection of these identities. Some scholars use metaphors and a shared “coming out” syntax

I’m sitting alone with a woman at the LGBT center before the nurse comes in to draw my blood. She’s asking me some questions about my sexual history. Eventually we get to talking about the asexual discussion group that I had started. She asks me if there would be a minimum age for attending. Confused, I tell her, “No... I hadn’t thought of that. Why do you ask?” She says, “Well, because of all the traumatic experiences...” I sit quietly for half a second, unsure how to respon

I do not want to die where I was born today it is taking all of my strength to keep my weeping, swollen eyelids open now and again pressing them with cold spoons and my own cold fingers I only wish telephones still were slow and had beautiful rings and curling cords. Where I was born is the sour seat of the shameful empire and too hot in the summer My eyes are not so sweet as the little cherries in the jar nor as pink nor as velvety and I do not want to die in the seat of the

how does this girl make me feel like such a boy when I’m fucking her I’m asking because I’ll never know I’m asking for when the mystery swells large enough to touch BASIL (GILLIAN) LEE they, them, theirs College of Arts & Sciences Class of 2017, English, Area Program in Poetry Writing Basil (Gillian) Lee writes about language and life as a queer person in the scary, lovely world. They are also a printmaker, musician, and book artist. They read a lot of Ted Berrigan, Mina Loy,

But here in Alabama, in the South, in these red states lined with blue mountains, I am the undercurrent, and I know I am not alone. Where yo

EVERY MORNING SINCE THEY MET, Vanessa’s asked him for eggs. Usually scrambled, occasionally sunny-side up. He had never made eggs before. She showed him where they were in the fridge, guiding his hand to the cardboard carton. He held one in his palm. He liked how the shell felt smooth on his fingertips, surprised himself with how little pressure it took to crack. He held it over a bowl, the jagged gash dripping. After it drained, he spent a few minutes fishing out small bits

queer culture is running out of people to swipe on tinder in fewer than 24 hours and queer culture is being depressed for no reason and showing up to class late and tired and queer culture is not knowing how relationships work because you didn’t get to go through the high school romance phase and queer culture is drinking Four Loko on someone’s roof, painting your nails and listening to Blonde on a phone in a cup so it’s just a little bit louder and queer culture is being afr

BUSTLING, ALWAYS BUSTLING. The candy shop a few blocks from Francesca’s apartment on Calle Mayor was always filled with people—locals, tourists, taste testers, and sweets enthusiasts alike. Everyone wanted a taste of Madrid’s famous chocolate. All so different, but all converged on a single shop. Francesca loved her job at the shop. Every day new people to meet, all with new orders and new tastes, families, stories. Her favorite part of working there—aside from occasionally g

JANIE FIRST CLOSES HER BEDROOM DOOR when she is twelve because her family has just moved into their new house. She has a new room and a new little brother, Jeremy, and she goes off down the hall to look at his nursery and wonder when the jealousy will set in. At first, she leaves the door open. She walks a few steps and pauses to think. She turns around and closes the bedroom door behind her. Janie opens and shuts her door too many times to count because her parents are paint