Yes, You.

Article by: Brittany Renee

Precious woman, 

Yes, you.

Somehow you thought your sparkle was too big, 

Too bright, 

Overexposed and juxtaposed,

Obvious in the night.

Keeping those opposed from shining just right,

You became a dimmed woman. 

Yes, you.

You didn’t realize that armor shines in the sun too. 

You grew dazed trying to save the world,

Dizzy as each day began to swirl,

Trying to be too many things to too many people.

Becoming too agreeable,

Forfeiting your own taste,

Losing and forgetting parts of yourself, 

Becoming misplaced. 

Leaving you a tired and lost woman, 

Yes, you.

Neutrals replaced color,

Afterall, you’re a mother now. 

And somehow, that means everyone has an opinion about what you do,

So, you became an always appropriate woman, 

Yes, you.  

Sacrifice has its place,

But it can be a sneaky bitch,

Leaving you with a scratch you can’t itch,

Invisible and inextricable, 

But painful all the same,

It tames you, 

Proclaims you an ashamed woman. 

Yes, you. 

But when you started to retrace your steps,

You saw how easy, how tragic it was to forget.

While looking for that thing you thought you couldn’t find,

You found your magic:

Sequins make your eyes sparkle,

Like dancing under a disco ball until last call.

You are a remarkable woman. 

Yes, you. 

Your smile holds glitter. 

Your laugh leaves tinsel floating midair. 

Hair wild like a lion’s mane, 

Wow, mama, aren’t you glad you came? 

A roar stronger than before,

You are a free woman. 

Yes, you. 

When you start to sway, 

Like a palm tree in the breeze, 

Shrouded in rhinestones and dresses above the knee,

Honey, please, 

Feel yourself as you sashay on stilettos, 

See those black lashes,

Thick and velvet, 

Saying, here’s a story, 

It’s my turn to tell it.

A beautiful woman, 

Yes, you. 

Remember when someone told you, the deeper the cut, the more likely a slut?

Well, here you are in your deepest V, highest slit, tallest heels,

Swinging too high on a golden trapeze to hear that voice,

But still you yell, “Hush, boys.”  

You are a perfectly noisy woman. 

Yes, you. 

Smack those glossed lips,

Sip your drink,

While your fire is burning white hot pink.

Smoke coils out from your dreamy eyes, 

Cloaking the truth,

And provoking the lies. 

Fan your face with feathers,

To shield yourself from the flare,

Even though your skin is kissed by shimmer,

Your lavender glasses combat the glare and glimmer,

Yeah, you can see just fine. 

You are a one of a kind woman. 

Yes, you.  

Your metallic boots reflect light too,

Like how your skin drips gems when you get out of water.

You thought you might’ve lost her, 

But your crown just needed adjusting. 

Some dusting,

Some trusting, 

That in your color, in your sparkle, in your shine, 

There is power. 

Hunt it with your jeweled hands.

Do not allow yourself to cower.

Realize your wish is your command

And get louder and louder in that eleventh hour. 

Keep that posture like a tower,

Because you are more than simply human, 

You are a powerful, powerful woman. 

Yes, you. 

Hair + Makeup: Jillian Artistry

Photography: NVS Photography



It was barely a whisper at first. I convinced myself I was hearing things. He didn’t say it. No, he didn’t say it. 

But then I heard him again, a little louder this time, more insistent. I pretended I didn’t hear him. I tried to drive faster, but rush hour traffic is a total bitch. 

I stayed quiet, tried to make myself seem smaller, like a gazelle who was being hunted by a wild lion. He was circling me, closing in, getting ready to lunge at me. I wondered if he could see my jugular pulsing in my neck. He was hungry, and I knew there was no escaping his appetite. 


This is rush hour, a toddler, and a severely depleted snack stash. This isn’t the wild. It is much, much scarier. It is motherhood. 

I tried to keep calm. I knew he could smell fear. I had to act like I could help him, keep him happy. That’s what they tell you to do in hostage situations, and this was basically the same thing. I dug out a crushed granola bar from my purse. It was all I could find. I handed it back to him, held my breath, and waited. 

“No, Mama. SNACK!” He sounded like a frat boy, too drunk and needing French fries.

I rifled through the front seat, striking gold after a few moments. An applesauce pouch. The holy grail. Fuck yes, that’ll do. 

I handed the pouch back. I smirked when he took it and became quiet because he was eating. But then, like life does, it kicks you in the cooch when you get too cocky. 

Within seconds an empty pouch came flying into the front seat. 

“More snack!” echoed from the backseat. 

Well, shit. I was cornered prey. I started to get angry, as I imagine prey often does. Why doesn’t he get his own snack? Why doesn’t he accept what I’ve offered him? He doesn’t pay bills. He doesn’t even wipe his own ass right now. The least he could do is accept my snack offerings graciously. Who is raising this ungrateful kid? Doesn’t he know we are stuck in traffic, and work was shit today? Maybe I should just move to the wild. The wild would accept my snacks with open fucking arms. 

Then, the mom guilt set in while I listened to him wail uncontrollably in the backseat. Classic. How could I let this happen? I put myself in this situation by not having enough snacks. I know he likes variety. He is probably literally starving to death even though I know he ate two hours ago. I need to do better. 

But, just as I was spiraling in the depths of motherhood and snack hell, I looked to my left. I saw a woman frantically handing a granola bar, a chip bag, a pouch to the back seat where I could see a car seat. The items were flung right back at her. 

I smirked. Sucker. 

And that, well, that made it better because I wasn’t alone in the wild.