Instructions on Building a Home: A personal essay

An Armenian diasporan reflects on intergenerational trauma

I have been ripped out of nothing and tossed into a new world. The smooth arch of my eyebrow, the bump of my nose, the earthy tones of my skin proclaim a wealthy heritage of people crossing rivers and oceans to reach America. Their beauty is mapped onto my body
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Plaid tablecloth with heart shapes

The Fabric of Love: A poem

The Cosmos woven together Fabric of strings unseen Binding force knits the in-between Love is the Fabric of Life Interspersed in most everything This quite fascinating thing A verb, seldom a noun — never stands still! By thought, deed and action Just present in everything Love showered by Nature Upon
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Black Girl Magic

I see it in my sister’s face, when she smiles with that quiet grace I see it when I’m with my friends, and their supply that never ends   I see it in a stranger’s stare, attempting to find out precisely where It’s like they’re trying to figure out the
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san andreas: A poem

Tonight is a beautiful night to open old wounds. Re-examine the scars that have long since healed — barely visible, but still there, old haunts. They permeate like fault lines, quiet and unassuming until they’re not. Until one wrong move, one shift of the tectonic plates deep inside you, shakes
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Artist, interrupted

Work in Progress

Life is really funny: I watched “Girl, Interrupted” for the first time just a few weeks before I landed myself in a psychiatric ward a month and a half ago.
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Portuguese daydreams

Work in Progress

I was sitting in Portuguese 103 one dreary winter day last semester when it occurred to me — and this thought was not in English, but in the Portuguese-Spanish cocktail pseudo-dialect known as “Portunhol” — that I was, in that moment, a visitor to the Portuguese language.
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I read it on the internet

Work in Progress

On my computer, I wrote troves of poetry and metaphorical stories, burdening Microsoft Word documents with lamentations about the depression I had been dealing with since fourth grade, and about my parents divorcing. Alone in my room, symbolic pen in my hand, I began, in earnest, to cement my career as a writer.
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