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Mikaela is a disabled queer bitch, born and raised in Brooklyn, NYC. She is inspired by her work with children, plant medicine, and changing the narrative of trauma. Mikaela refuses to die, solely because she knows capitalism wants her to. She is dedicated to making sliding scale herbal remedies in Oakland, CA. Instagram: @DESTR0YH1M + @babygirlbotanicals  I have been to hell without leaving my bed
Physical, uncontrollable pain comes to me, the most consistent visitor. I have never been a pacifist because I have fought my entire life. I bloom, I die, and I do it all over again. Chronic is forever, illness isn’t temporary. This disease is slowly spreading itself across each joint. My tissues are held together by mere strings. I think about epigenetics. Trauma has wrapped itself around our DNA I think about the women in my family who dragged themselves across oceans, only to find that they are still in war time. I am holding generations of history within my joints. The space where collagen should be, is filled with uncertainty, the ghosts of incest. Frida Kahlo had a mirror installed above her bed, so she could paint self portraits. I don’t think I need a mirror, I know what this looks like. I look like my mom. I bloom, I die, and I do it all over again. What keeps me alive? I have a plant hanging above my bed. I have watched her grow as I lay staring at the ceiling, wondering when I will morph into my mattress. I am the teacher I wish I had. I am the mom I wish I had. I am the father that I deserved. I cannot have a full term pregnancy, but I will have a child one day. I will let them know they are everything. I will sing quietly in their ear, tell them how important they are. I am emotionally and physically closer to death than ever. But telling the truth makes me feel alive. I bloom, I die, and I do it all over again.
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Women in The Wallpaper
The yellow clogs my lungs and files down my nails. The woman in the room, locked in the room, stares all day through the pattern, through me. She senses me, sees me, fears me, hopes I will vanish in the daylight, she does not know we are the other’s freedom. The woman and I creep together, twins so mirrored it is hard to tell who is the fracture of whom. I try to hold her hand as we choke for air, bound with gags of different cloth that shut us up just the same. She never reaches back, and the paper gets tighter, crowded as our numbers begin to grow, manifested in her solitude. We twist and twitch, shake so violently the paper has a pulse, like its alive the way we’re alive, the way she will come alive when she rips us free, her body making space to hold us all inside her. A coven of hidden women clawing for liberation, to claim a sister silenced. "My name is Demi Marshall, and I am a 21 year old college student from Northwest, IN. I experiment with a variety of writing styles (usually never showing them to anyone), but mostly what I do are music reviews. My writing has been featured in Unclear Magazine, Strife Magazine, my college newspaper, and my personal blog, InAlternative. I hope to continue writing and pursue a career in something related to music journalism." Twitter: @DemiRain97 Instagram: demetrarain The day we moved in, you dropped your mirror on the sidewalk and it shattered. I should have taken this as a sign. What started out as best friends living together Quickly turned into canceled plans, confrontation, and locked doors, Finally ending in silence. You were everything I ever wanted in a friend. By Valentine's Day you were gone. I got home and your side of the room was barren and empty. Those white brick walls echoed the countless arguments they had witnessed in only a matter of months. I threw my clothes into your closet, desperately trying to fill the void you left in me. I fought to repress the anger and sadness rising in my chest, never letting myself truly mourn your absence. You were so good at making me feel small. Now I've learned to live with the fact that you're gone. I've accepted that you chose him over me, The person who loved you the most, and was always there for you. In the end, I hope you got what you wanted. But you really broke me.
Tattooing
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