created, maintained, and curated by womyn, for all.
April's theme is
MOTHERS & SISTERS.
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RAINCOAT is a community of musicians, writers, visual artists, filmmakers, and more. We champion the work of womyn and the nurturing of safe, dynamic spaces that encourage its creation and distribution.
This memory is a generic one. In my brain’s retelling of senior year, this happened many, many times, and it was exactly the same every time. That obviously can’t be the case, but still: the simple sequence of events, due to its overall regularity, has become an unexpectedly important memory. It goes like this: you text me or vice versa. We meet by the stairs behind Clark. We run down the stairs to your car secretly sort of hoping we don’t run in to anyone. You turn the key;
The curved wooden earrings that I bought with my mother in Hawaii They used to lay on my dresser Now I don't know where they lay. My dorm key from last year, but then I found it My ID every time I look for it in my bottomless bag My grandfather to cancer My grandmother to Alzheimer's My cat when I was six years old but he always came home. The key to my family's china cabinet which I buried near my friend's house when I was mad We dug for way too long to not find it. My trans
It’s a strange feeling, really. Your initial reaction is to cry. No, that’s not right. You wait for him to leave, you order a pizza, you turn on some Joni Mitchell, then you cry. You crawl into bed and cry between the wrinkled sheets. You can’t quite pinpoint why you’re crying so excessively but the tears are flowing, and you let them because this is what a breakup is supposed to look like. You’re supposed to be sad. Devastated. Depressed. Irrational. So you cry until your ey
It starts quietly, but immediately you know it’s the building kind of quiet: picture a singular spotlight on a stage, singer and guitar comfortable in the big space, gentle fingerpicking chords and soft crooning emanating gently from that warm beam of light. You are nodding along, smiling a little. “But I’ve been anywhere, and it’s not what I want/I wanna be still with you…” There is a lull, and a subsequent eruption. The stage explodes, the air is flooded with loud craggy gu
Let me start off this post by being frank and saying that I, am a virgin. Not only that, I thoroughly enjoy being a virgin as people act like being a virgin at my age is akin to being a unicorn. I have no qualms about sharing this information, as I am neither ashamed nor embarrassed, nor do I care about upholding any ridiculous societal norms about what’s sexually acceptable for women. I had a slightly more reserved, judgmental, Puritan take on sex in the past, but then somet
Since completing this mixtape a few weeks ago, I've written upwards of twenty drafts of this particular essay. My first attempt discussed my tendency to play out romantic first-meeting scenarios in my head during moments of solitude. My second described my mixed emotions about Tinder. One just said "skaljsdflkjasdf." None of them were quite right. I've been wondering why I'm having so much trouble writing about love, and why I feel so conflicted about my earlier drafts.