Riparian Buffer
By Suzanna Schofield
Breathe in, breathe out.
Smell the roses, feel the thorns,
Embrace life for all that it is, for all that it isn’t.
Return home, realize it no longer is one,
Maybe it never was.
Wildflowers grow on the side of highways,
Pollution spills over, and yet, they grow.
Even painful memories contain joy.
Read MoreRammstein: My Will to Go On
By Addie Craig
I'm having a crisis. Specifically concerning what to major in. Which translates to the rest
of my life. Because my mind has warped this decision into ruling my existence thus far.
Read MoreBroken Merchandise
By Abigail George
you are crying before the dance
This poem arose out of a frustration with the simplication of the realities of sexual assault victims.
Read MoreA Declawed Cat
By Anonymous
Content warnings: references to self-harm
Anger is a problem. And I treat anger as a terrible person would a cat—if claws scratch things, remove the claws; if anger breaks things, remove the anger.
Read MoreNumb is Trapped in Numbers
By Li Yin ‘26
After a good cry from a scolding for being 2% away from 100%, for being one away from a five, I hold that gutting pain in my chest. It is at first blunt and piercing, but it slowly fades, and I let out a laugh. Every pore of my body, clogged by generational trauma, tightens. But laughter, and the boldness and unavoidance of its accompanying breaths, time and time again becomes another breath, becomes another step into clarity.
Read MoreWe Know No Balance
By Li Yin ‘26
The buzzing engine, the faint cabin light, the sharp cry of vexed infants, the muffled noise of food carts rolling. I wake up shivering with Hong Kong thousands of miles away. Or maybe more. Everything weaves together by chance, and the intricate, complicated, and unpredictable world carries us like the ocean carries a wooden vessel. The vessel floats, thinking it owns itself, its capabilities, its existence. But the next second the ocean may decide to swallow it whole.
I close my eyes again.
Read MoreWhen Pretense Falls Short
By Van An Trinh ‘24
I’ve always felt like I was a first draft of a person. Every environment I’ve been in has highlighted an unbridgeable difference between myself and the richness of others—like I should have contained a self, somewhere, that was lost in the gap between my actions and their bearing on who I was.
Read MoreRuminations on OCD
By Riya Balachandran ‘24
Crouched naked on the ground, my hands and knees are digging into the rug I can never clean right. I’m sitting in front of a small fan with tears in my eyes and lingering traces of isopropyl on my fingertips.
Read MoreExceptions
By Dani Pergola ‘21
When I got to Wellesley, I planned to approach it just like high school. Do the right thing, do all my work, and get the good grades I deserved. It only took a month for me to realize I was totally fucked.
Read MoreA Mourning Musing
By Jacqueline Roderick ‘23
CW: death of a parent
On a Saturday morning, three weeks after my estranged mother’s sudden death, I found myself walking in solitude along the shoreline.
Read MoreQuarantine Diaries
by Dallis Kehoe ‘23
The alcohol smiles through our eyes as we find ourselves flowing with the vibrations that pulse around us. I see your smile widen as your body is overtaken by the rhythm of night and sound. I see you, and you become mine for a second.
Read MoreThis Week in Social Anxiety Disorder
by Anonymous
CW: description of anxiety
Monday morning: I’m walking to the Career Education Center with a donut in my hand. I’m eating it in the Pendleton parking lot when I think: there's a professor in Founders who I haven’t spoken to in a while. She gave me an extension on a paper once—a couple of papers, actually. But I haven't visited her since then. I guess I would have felt awkward having us both know the favor she did for me. I wouldn’t know how to broach the topic, or if I should even broach it.
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