Bossier's V-Day Special

by Olivia Jenkins, Layla Gorgoni, Olivia Jimenez, and Maydha Dhanuka

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!! If no one has asked you to be their Valentine today, we at Bossier would love for you to be ours! Take this day to spread luv to anyone and everyone. Whether you have a nice date planned or if you're hanging with the friends or (if you're like me) you have a hot date with a lot of assignments, spend some time showing yourself some love. Most of the time we focus so much on showing love to other people that we forget about ourselves. In the words of Lucille Ball, “Love yourself first and everything else falls into line. You really have to love yourself to get anything done in this world.”

Remember: you are loved, you are valuable, and you are so special. 

Sending you all of our love from the B Team. <3

xoxo, Liv

love poems for bossier

by Maydha Dhanuka

buttercup,
you make me feel alive.
you smell like pine and rain and
it sets my heart racing.

cinnamon gum
permeates your grin -
soft smile, crinkled eyes,
ever-affectionate.

darling,
you’re a winter morning,
a cold wind
that kisses the tip of my nose.

still,
you give me a case of
that warm-cheeked
shy-smiled
thing called love.

---

i’ll love you
as you are,
as you were,
as you might be,

as a series of infinite potentials,
of ‘what ifs’ and ‘may haves’,
as a dream floating off,
a bright balloon against a dull sky.

i’ll love you in the night, even,
when no one else is around.
i’ll love your darkest secrets
and your brightest virtues.

i’ll love you when you’re wine drunk
and when you’re sad,
and when you don’t feel the same way
and when we are no longer close,

after all,
i love you.  
as you are,
as you were,
as you might be.

by Olivia Jenkins

by Olivia Jenkins

 

him

by Olivia Jimenez

He is

the ocean!: the wild and impulsive sea (home to cyclones and colossal waves which tower the Eiffel); calming, glittering blues which vacillate with the moon

the cosmos!: infinite and strange; a beautiful depth of uncertainties and promise

a mockingbird!: cloaked in gray, yes, but with a vibrant song much deeper; soaring but constantly afraid of hitting windows

a pinky swear!: child-like but carrying monumental significance; a tangible particle of values  

a candle!: capable of burning (both itself and my fingertips), but always extraordinarily effulgent; incandescent and splendid and warm

a comforter!: thick and soft and home; wrapping itself around flesh and fractured thoughts nightly

To be explicit, he is

mother nature’s flowing rivers and jagged rocks, her green green green hilltops and her red red red core, her hurricanes and her light, her dewdrops and her snowflakes, her wolves paying homage to the moon

To be explicit, he is

paradox with a live, pounding heart, as red as the Potomac in his wrists (on his wrists).

To be explicit, he is… he is, he is, he is!

He is as impossible to explain
as the square root of -1,
and so he exists as a human microcosm of the infinite.

yet, I have found he is scared of deflating his infinity,
despite his introducing me to it.
I have found I am scared of deflating his infinity,
despite my incapacity to even understand it.
and, I found that I see him in so many of my surroundings—in the ocean and the cosmos and the birds and pinky swears and candles and comforters and mother nature and paradoxes and

and

and

by Layla Gorgoni

by Olivia Jenkins

 

journals are for clichés; I don’t keep journals

by Olivia Jimenez

and once upon a time, on a beautiful day like today, clichés sat in my head yet I was filled with desire to show my patronage to the sun, which was spread out on the glinting river, and to materialize thanks to that single red leaf I saw flitting about above my head, stark against a baby blue, and there is so much I feel compelled to do:

cliché #1: I feel an ardent forest fire in my stomach and my throat—I need a regiment for spontaneity, for avoiding the screams of eye-taunting screens;

cliché #2: I feel so in tune with nature, maybe because he puts butterflies in my core and explores smoky forests where he drags rotting logs up hills and past trees;

cliché #3: I feel small and hopeless when I look at oceans and stars, but then he put a shooting star next to my name and I remembered the ocean is filled with individual drops of sparkling hydrogen breath;

cliché #5: I heard colonies of birds in choir but all I could see was the flap-less wings of mechanization slicing through the sun… there’s nothing I can do about this one.

cliché #6: thank God I have him to stop hearing those ticks and those tocks, thank God, thank God, thank God.