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Jackson Firmstone A quadruple axel is the premier skill in figure skating, long seen as the El Dorado of the sport, and has only recently been within reach of humanity. The American figure skater Ilia Malinin (known as The Quad God) is the first person in history to complete all 4.5 rotations in an international competition. His recent stumble at the Olympic Games in Milan was a shock not only for himself but for the entire figure skating community, as he was considered the favorite for gold. Ilia’s stumble, although tragic, is representative of a larger trend within American Olympic performance. Why are American athletes falling behind and what does it reflect about society?  The Olympic Games are a crucial tradition in the international community, as they represent the global co-operation and competition that has been central in the 21st century. They have been forwarding diplomacy since ancient Athens and continue to adapt to modern requirements as a major platform for cultural exchange. The Olympics have always functioned as more than sport. They are a recurring display of how societies organise bodies, discipline, and the opportunity within them. Since the modern Games began in 1896, nations have used the competition not only to win prestige but to demonstrate the success of their social systems. As Mahdi Feizabadi and his co-authors note in their article in the Journal of Sports Science, “sport symbolizes the international environment while also being a pragmatic tool of that environment.” The 1936 Berlin Olympics served as a performance of ideological legitimacy for the Nazi regime. During the Cold War, medal tables became proxies for competing political orders. Even in the contemporary era participation itself can carry symbolic weight, as delegations signal inclusion in global society regardless of political tension. A more modern example of the cultural importance of the Olympics came in 2012 when the Iranian government sent their athletes to compete. At the time, the Iranian government was under severe sanctions from the international community for their continued pursuit of weapons grade uranium. The response was clear and punitive, as economic pressure spearheaded by the United States was applied in an attempt to incentivise reversing their nuclear program. In this tense geopolitical arena, the Iranian delegation played important roles, both in unifying a nation despite severe economic pressures and in acting as a cultural bridge to Western powers.  The Games, in other words, do not merely measure athletic ability—they measure how nations cultivate athletes in the first place. For much of the twentieth century, the United States produced athletes through breadth rather than specialization. Public schools, municipal leagues, and accessible facilities created a wide athletic base. Elite competitors emerged from participation rather than selection. The system relied less on early identification and more on mass involvement. In recent decades, that pipeline has changed. The pipeline to elite sport begins in childhood and depends on repeated exposure. Increasingly in the United States, that exposure is purchased rather than encountered. Youth sport is no longer primarily a recreational activity that occasionally produces elite competitors, but a structured developmental ladder requiring coaching, travel, and early specialization. The collegiate sports economy and rising tuition costs have intensified this process. Private youth sports organizations maintain profit margins through preying on parents' via their children’s dreams and by limiting opportunities outside private clubs. Exacerbating this is how athletic scholarships function as the singular pathway to economic mobility for many, encouraging families to invest heavily in training from a young age. In the US, spending in youth sports now exceeds $40 billion annually and has attracted private equity investment. The purchase of IMG Academy by BPEA EQT and Nord Anglia Education exemplifies this shift—a 600-acre training complex is now operating less as a community facility and more as a long-term performance investment environment. These systems produce a small group of extremely refined athletes, but they narrow the population able to enter them. This narrowing becomes clearest in sports that require expensive environments before talent can even be discovered. Snow sports provide the most visible case. The duopoly of Vail Resorts and Alterra Mountain Company has dramatically increased the cost of slope access, where young skiers first develop familiarity. A single-day pass at major American resorts can cost hundreds of dollars, representing a multi-thousand percent increase since the 1970s. For many families the cost is prohibitive at the introductory stage. In European alpine regions, where infrastructure is denser and access remains broader, the entry point is less restrictive. Winter sports therefore reveal structural change earlier than other disciplines: participation determines the future talent pool. This is why the first indicators of this structural narrowing are seen at the Winter Olympics.  Only after this narrowing appears in development does it show up in results. While the United States has historically dominated Olympic competition, recent Winter Games show declining representation in specific disciplines. The American alpine team dropped from multiple podium finishes in Vancouver (2010) to only a single silver in Beijing (2022). In speed skating—historically a Dutch-American rivalry—the United States has fallen to sixth in the world, while the Netherlands have won dozens more medals since 2010. Individual successes, such as American speed skater Jordan Stolz both winning gold and setting a record at this year’s Olympics, still occur but they emerge as outliers in a declining average. Similar patterns appear outside winter sports. The 2024 US Open women’s semifinals featured American tennis players Jessica Pegula and Emma Navarro, both supported by immense family wealth. Their achievements remain legitimate athletic accomplishments, but they illustrate a demographic shift: development increasingly depends on sustained private funding rather than institutional access. Across sports, the United States continues to produce excellence, yet from a narrower segment of society. The Olympic medal table therefore reflects not only national strength but national accessibility. A country can remain wealthy and still produce fewer broadly distributed athletes if participation becomes conditional. Rather than a simple athletic decline, recent results suggest a reorganization from population-based to investment-based development. The Games measure not only who trains hardest, but how widely a nation allows its citizens to begin. At a distance, these trends can be read as uniquely American—a by-product of scale and commercial sport. But the question posed by the Olympics is portable: what conditions allow a country to discover athletes before it decides to invest in them?  In New Zealand the pathway remains visibly different. Many elite athletes still emerge from school competitions, regional clubs, and multi-sport childhoods rather than single-sport specialization. Facilities are uneven and funding limited, yet the entry point is often informal: a public field, a volunteer coach, a seasonal league. The system produces fewer athletes overall, but the barrier to beginning remains comparatively low. This low bar to entry is extremely important to maintain, not only for New Zealand sport but for New Zealand in general. The limited opportunity for mobility in United States athletics is representative of the rampant growth of economic inequality. Seen this way, the Olympic Games compare not only nations, but pathways: some systems search widely and refine later, others refine early and search narrowly.

Connections Answers: First Connection Golf Clubs: Driver, Putter, Wedge, Iron Second Connection Car Parts: Motor, Shift, Trunk, Glove Third Connection Things that can "form" around something: Band, Circle, Ring, Club Fourth Connection Verbs meaning "think over/consider": Mull, Deal, Palm, Spoke

Holly Rowsell Content Warning: Anti-trans Rhetoric, State Violence (ICE),  Epstein. The state of media ownership is pretty fucking dim right now. Most of the major streamers are owned by mega-rich, MAGA sympathizing white guys who are carefully orchestrating the mass monopolisation of media. These are modern-day super-villians, and each year they’re getting bolder. For anyone unfamiliar, here's a recap of their greatest hits:  Warner Bros. Studio, who we can thank for the biggest theatrical releases of 2025 ( Sinners , OBAA , Superman ), is being acquired by Netflix, whose Co-CEO Ted Sarandos believes watching movies in cinemas “...is an outmoded idea, for most people…” In response to the platforming of anti-trans rhetoric, Sarandos has also stated "...we have a strong belief that content on screen doesn’t directly translate to real-world harm…" And  they’ve started using AI for special effects.  Amazon is constantly being pulled up for egregious worker’s rights violations. They’re also notorious tax evaders; Ethical Consumer estimates Amazon’s systematic avoidance of corporation tax deprived UK citizens of around £575 million in 2024 alone. Meanwhile, owner Jeff Bezos has generated a net worth of nearly $220 billion off the backs of underpaid, overworked employees. And he appeared in the Epstein files 194 times. In an act of media censorship, Disney-owned ABC briefly cancelled Jimmy Kimmel Live in September of last year after Kimmel made light of Trump’s response to the killing of Charlie Kirk. In 2025, Disney removed two of its DEI programs and didn’t mention DEI in their annual business report for the first time since 2019. And they’ve just invested $1 billion in OpenAI. Apple CEO Tim Cook has become fast friends with Trump. In Jan 2025, he personally donated $1 million to Trump’s inauguration fund. Cook also attended a special White House screening of a new Melania documentary on the same day Alex Pretti—intensive care nurse and U.S. citizen—was executed by ICE agents in the streets of Minneapolis. And he appeared in the Epstein files 152 times.  Disney+, Prime Video, Netflix, and Apple TV are unequivocal no-gos for those concerned with human rights, censorship, and the future of creative media. It feels like ethical consumers have no way to stream movies without sailing the high seas, if you catch my drift. Enter: AroVison, a Pōneke-based streaming service run by local small-business AroVideo.  AroVideo is a DVD rental store in the heart of Aro Valley that has miraculously survived countless cultural shifts. Andrew Armitage first opened the store in 1989, though back then they were renting VHS tapes (which they still do, by the way!). When the Digital Versatile Disc was invented in 95’, AroVideo adapted and began stocking the new tech. They even survived the video-store-plague, a slow-acting disease caused by online streaming services.  Despite all this resilience, Armitage told Stuff  in 2015 that the end was near for his beloved video store. A bright idea helped him hold on; the owner introduced the 'Adopt a Movie' scheme. Movie-lovers were invited to sponsor the purchase of a DVD, helping Aro keep stocking new stuff that they otherwise couldn't afford. The shop is now home to 667 adopted films. In 2022 Armitage launched The AroVideo Library Preservation Transition Fund. The money raised would help to shift ownership out of his hands and into those of a trust entity that could protect and preserve this important cultural collection. In seven months, he raised nearly $35,000 dollars.  Today, the AroVideo DVD Library contains over 27,000 titles—around 24,000 of which are rental films—making it the largest collection in Aotearoa. For comparison, Netflix only offers around 5000 movies (cough—pathetic—cough).  This place is a Wellington institution that would be long gone if not for the support of its loving community. It’s important we keep that support coming. The best way you can help ensure the survival of this store is by choosing AroVision as your film-streaming service. AroVision boasts a beautifully curated collection of 3500 films. The website describes their catalogue as “festival, cult, classic and unusual titles, the vast majority of which are not currently available on the best-known streaming provider.”  The platform operates as a digital video store. Membership is free. You pay a rental fee per movie, just as you would for a DVD, which gives you 30 days to start watching the film, and 48 hours to finish it once pressing play. The cost of a movie varies from $5 to $8. Watch it with a friend, and that's maximum $4 each! Two friends, $2.67! And so on! Browsing such a unique catalog can be a little daunting. Even movie buffs haven't heard about some of the stuff on AroVision. But fear not! I’ll be back bi-weekly to recommend a couple films I think you’ll like—or at the very least haven't seen before.  Let’s keep loving this local legend. Gather your mates, chuck some popcorn in the microwave, and watch a movie on NZ’s most ethical streamer. No matter the genre, everything on Aro is a feel-good-film, because nothing feels better than supporting a local business.

Labour pivots from inspiration to reassurance In a press conference lit exclusively by harsh, overhead fluorescents—the sort of lighting normally reserved for supermarket meat departments, police interviews, and situations where someone insists they don’t recall a conversation—Labour leader Chris Hipkins today unveiled what advisers are calling a reframing strategy for the party’s fortunes: the “ I’m Not a Bad Guy ” campaign. Reporters confirmed the lighting choice was deliberate. According to briefing notes accidentally left face-up on a lectern, the fluorescents were selected to “signal honesty, discomfort, and the vibe of someone who is about to say ‘let’s just clear a few things up.’” One junior staffer was reportedly told to dim the lights slightly, but not enough to suggest reflection—only enough to imply there might be something in the corner worth worrying about. The effort is intended to address mounting public unease with Labour’s recent policy record, including its plan to think about introducing a pseudo-capital gains tax on profits from commercial and residential property to fund three free doctor visits a year for every New Zealander. What that policy actually does is, according to spokespeople, secondary to ensuring the public believes it was conceived by someone who isn’t a Bad Guy. “We looked at all the reasons people might be unhappy—the lukewarm back-and-forth on tax reform, the suggestion that non-family homes should be taxed so everyone can see a GP three times a year, the persistent perception that Chris is just a bland guy in a bland world—and we thought, you know, let’s just say the one thing that would reassure everyone,” said one senior adviser in a statement that, paradoxically, did not reassure anyone. Asked whether the policy would meaningfully improve health outcomes, one spokesperson clarified that this was “not really the intention.” The primary objective, they explained, was emotional. “Three GP visits is just enough to feel like care exists, without the inconvenience of actually restructuring anything,” they said. “It’s about the idea of being looked after. Like a weighted blanket, but legislated.” At the press conference, Hipkins stood alone at a podium, framed by shadows that suggested either gravitas or a power failure. Behind him, a single poster declared in bold black text: I’M NOT A BAD GUY (Also: We’ll Fund GPs!) Labour strategists insist the campaign is less about policy substance and more about affective framing. “It’s not that we want to introduce a fair tax to grow the economy and help fund healthcare,” one operative explained. “It’s mainly that we want voters to feel fine and okay about liking that plan and, by extension, liking Chris. That’s the core message.” An anonymous member of the Labour party told Salient  that Hipkins “is like a piece of white bread, but one that, the moment you put it in the toaster, somehow burns on both sides and still doesn’t toast.” This characterisation, they added, was less a criticism of his policies and more a lament about the toaster’s settings. That sense of malfunction has only intensified as Hipkins’ public image has become quietly entangled with a series of uncomfortable clarifications, denials, and statements of absolute certainty—particularly around what he was, or was not, told in his previous ministerial life. Labour maintains these matters are settled. The public, meanwhile, appears unsure whether the issue is the conversation itself or the increasingly elaborate architecture built to explain its absence. The contrast with Jacinda Ardern has become impossible to ignore. Ardern’s Campaign of Kindness did not rely on procedural memory or semantic distinctions between “casual conversations” and “formal briefings.” It worked because it presented leadership as something felt rather than litigated. Kindness, under Ardern, was not a defence strategy; it was a governing aesthetic. Hipkins’  I’m Not a Bad Guy campaign, by comparison, feels less like an invitation and more like a clarification issued after the fact. Where Ardern’s messaging assumed goodwill and sought to elevate it, Hipkins’ appears designed to contain suspicion. It does not ask voters to believe in him so much as to stop imagining the worst version of him, pretty please. This is a subtle but consequential shift: from inspiration to risk management. Internally, Labour staffers concede the campaign is not about reclaiming momentum so much as stabilising reputational drift. “We’re not trying to recreate Jacinda,” one source said. “We’re trying to prevent Chris from being mentally filed under ‘bad guy’.” In that sense, I’m Not a Bad Guy  is a campaign perfectly calibrated to its moment: sober, defensive, and aware that it is arguing uphill against a lingering sense that something important slipped through the cracks—and that no one is quite sure whose cracks those were. Whether reassurance can substitute for trust remains to be seen. Labour insiders say contingency messaging has already been prepared should the campaign fail to land. Draft slogans reportedly include “Look, He’s Fine,” “Not Evil, Just Tired,” and the pared-back “At Least It’s Not Worse.” But Labour’s wager is clear; if voters cannot be inspired, perhaps they can at least be persuaded not to worry. And if the public still feels uneasy, the campaign offers its final, unspoken reassurance: if anything truly bad had happened, someone would definitely remember being told about it.

If you’re on a dating app—or honestly just trying to meet anyone—it’s pretty likely you’ll end up getting ghosted at some point. The 21st century gave us great things: streaming, online shopping, and food delivery at 1am…but it also gave us some proper rubbish ones. Ghosting being right up there. Your Hunk Unc has done his time in the trenches of the dating apps, and here’s the reality: it’s hard. So hard, in fact, this Hunk eventually jumped off them, worked on himself over summer, and picked up hobbies he actually enjoyed—not just doomscrolling virtual tamagotchis with fish photos and “looking for something casual” bios. But anyway… you’re not asking about apps. You’re asking what happens when you like someone, and for whatever reason, they vanish. Ouch. First step to getting over it: let it hurt. I know, I know—what you want to do is act like they never mattered anyway, that your life is better without them, and they’ve missed out on this big beautiful love story you two totally could’ve had. But let’s be honest—if you’re writing into an advice column about someone ghosting you, you cared about them. Even a little bit. And that’s fine. Actually, it’s a good thing. You cared. Which means you’re capable of caring again—in your next relationship, situationship, or whatever-ship you’re heading toward. That’s not embarrassing. That’s something to keep. Right now though, that care feels like hurt, so feel it.  Complain to your mates. Write terrible poetry. Draft texts you’ll never send. Play Adele  or Florence + The Machine  at irresponsible hours. Or be like your Unc and go lift heavy circles at the gym—elite distraction, highly recommended. Just try keep it constructive, not self-destructive. Substances aren’t therapy, bro. Also—don’t spend the next calendar year mourning a two-month situationship. But do give yourself time to process it. The real sting with ghosting is your brain fills in the gaps. You start imagining what life would’ve been like if they hadn’t disappeared: the dates, the trips, the chats, the sex, the inside jokes, the “maybe”. You’re grieving potential. But here’s the important bit—and you probably know where this is heading: they ghosted you. They didn’t send a 10-second message. Not even a “hey sorry, not feeling it” text. Not a “met someone else.” Not even a low-effort thumbs-up exit. Nothing. And this is the tough love section: they didn’t care enough to communicate. You cared. They didn’t—at least not enough to do the bare minimum of respect. Hard pill to swallow, but necessary. Because once you accept they weren’t actually this ideal person—even if the banter was great, the chemistry was great, whatever—they still chose the easiest path for themselves instead of a kind one for you. And yeah… that’s a bit stink. So to get over someone who ghosted you, grieve it, then reframe it. They showed you how they handle discomfort and communication, and that behaviour isn’t partner material. Your person wouldn’t treat you like that. Whoever you end up with should offer kindness, respect, and basic adult communication—bare minimum standard stuff. So I’m holding your metaphorical hand when I say this: you dodged a bullet. Let it hurt, then recognise you deserve someone who at least has the courage to send a text. Bare minimum effort is still effort, and they didn’t even manage that.

Tēnā koutou katoa,   Nau mai haere mai ki te Whare Wānanga o Te Herenga Waka!   Ko Ngāi Tauira mātou!   We are the Māori Students Association here at Te Herenga Waka. Our purpose is to enhance all that tauira Māori experience during their study.  We provide support with hauora, promote academic success, encourage whakawhānaunga, and engage with cultural kaupapa. We provide a voice and advocate for tauira Māori at Victoria University of Wellington and also promote Te Tiriti o Waitangi and the Treaty of Waitangi with both VUWSA and the university.  We work closely alongside Āwhina and The Deputy Vice-Chancellor (DVC) Māori office to ensure that this  university provides you with the best possible resources. Come find us in either of our NT common spaces and study hubs, located on level two of the Student Union Building and level two of Ngā Mokopuna.   Ngāi Tauira is the core Māori student’s association here at Te Herenga Waka, though Te Herenga Waka also offers Ngā Rangahautira (the Māori Law association), Ngā Taura Umanga (the Māori Commerce student association), Te Paepaeroa (the Māori Architecture and Design student association), and Te Hohaieti o Te Reo Māori (the Reo Māori society).  These associations all regularly run events and kaupapa that you can jump in on and make lifelong friends from, including Kapa Haka, weekly sports, rongoā Māori workshops, rumaki reo, study wānanga, and so much more.   Our consistent kaupapa include:   - Weekly Kapa Haka every Tuesday from 3 p.m. to 5 p.m. at Ngā Mokopuna and Te Tumu Herenga Waka  - Biweekly parakuihi every other Wednesday from 8:30 a.m. in the Ngā Mokopuna wharekai  - Weekly social netball on Wednesdays   - Weekly social basketball on Fridays   Upcoming kaupapa include:  - Back2School Pāti on Saturday, 7 March  - Hall Drop-in's from March 2 to March 5 We have more kaupapa and events coming up though, so make sure to keep an eye on our Instagram page to keep up to date!   > @ngaitauira.vuw

Martha Schenk On the morning of 22 January 2026, a disastrous landslide claimed the lives of six people in a Mount Manganui holiday park. Hours later in nearby Pāpāmoa, two more people died when another slope failed and crushed their home. Eight deaths in a single morning: a statistic at once shocking and strangely familiar in Aotearoa. Research from GNS Science reveals that landslides are responsible for more deaths than earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, flooding, and tsunamis. The deaths make up 0.44% of the estimated 1800 that have occurred as the result of landslides in the last 160 years, cementing them as New Zealand’s deadliest natural hazard.  Despite this, they are often underdiscussed and overlooked as hazards, considered by many as secondary to more dramatic, infrequent events. In Aotearoa, landslides can be broadly defined as the downslope movement of rock, soil and vegetation. They can vary in size and speed, and are often called “slips” colloquially. Technically, they can include slides, falls, or flows. They may be triggered by rainfall or earthquakes, but also by human activity such as the loading or oversteepening of slopes by construction activities, vegetation removal, or leaking water pipes left without repair. January’s recent tragedy took place in the Bay of Plenty, a region arguably more susceptible to landslides due to its high levels of intense rainfall. But Wellington is hardly immune.  As Engineering Geologist Ann Williams explains: “(In Wellington) You mostly have greywacke, which is a fractured rock mass.” “However, when it is completely weathered it becomes a soil, so you might have a shallow slide develop at the top of a slope in mostly soil like material, that then slides over a rock slope and takes rocks from the slope with it, and you end up with a debris slide, or a rock fall slide.” In other cases, deeper fractures combine with long-standing weaknesses to produce larger and more destructive landslides.  “General triggers for landslides are things like heavy rainfall, earthquakes, or undercutting of a slope by earthworks or rivers,” Williams says. “But most natural slopes have marginal stability and much of New Zealand could be considered ‘prone’ to land slip”. According to the Greater Wellington Regional Council’s hazard management plan, the highest-risk areas are slopes steeper than thirty-five degrees, gorges and coastal cliffs, altered or denuded hillsides, quarries, previously failed slopes, and places underlain by weathered or scattered rock. This reads less like a list of exceptions than a description of the city itself. Kelburn, Aro Valley, Newtown, Wadestown, Island Bay—suburbs thick with student flats—qualify on multiple counts. As does much of Te Herenga Waka’s property, including Kelburn Campus and accommodations such as the Waiteata Apartments, Kelburn Flats, and Everton Hall. When contacted by Salient , the university said that it does not currently deem these residences susceptible to landslip risk and noted that preventative measures—engineering intervention, drainage management, and on-going visual inspections—are regularly undertaken. In 2025, a potential risk identified at the Waiteata Apartments resulted in the implementation of a new retaining wall. No landslides were recorded on university property that year.  Students, meanwhile, inhabit a more ambiguous terrain than the university: aware, vaguely, of the hills but unsure what to make of them. A third-year geology student living at Everton Hall says she isn’t particularly concerned—“a lot of slopes are quite well planted or reinforced with concrete,”—though after storms “there’s always a shit tonne of debris.” She worries more about the Kelburn Campus cemetery, where the ground is steep and “not entirely consolidated.”  A second-year english literature student in a university-owned Kelburn flat confesses, “I’ve personally never thought about a landslide,” though after last week’s storm she and her flatmates joked that a tree might fall on the house.  A third-year psychology student at the Waiteata Apartments says she has “definitely thought about [the risk of landslips], looking at this big hill,” but wouldn't know what to do in the event of a landslide. In Aro Valley, a second-year building science student describes her Adams Terrace flat: “Our backyard’s actually on a bit of a slant … We’ve had trees fall down the back of it.” When they moved in, she says, “we didn’t really think about the amount of risk that could come with it.”  A third-year law student from Newtown admits that concerns about her house’s structural integrity during an earthquake or landslide “really heavily impacted my mental wellbeing” when she first arrived.   In Wadestown, the suburb with the most slips in 2025 according to the Wellington City Council, a second-year English literature student told Salient  that she feels safe at home, but that the roads nearby are frequently compromised. “There’s often floods and slips down by the Countdown,” she says. Bus routes are disrupted; supermarket access becomes uncertain. ”There are spots where I park my car that could get hit by landslips.” On public land—roads, footpaths, reserves—landslides are managed by Wellington City Council, which spends roughly four to five million dollars annually on retaining-wall work. Remediation, according to the council’s website, may take anywhere from “a few months up to a few years.” Current stabilization projects include works in Churton Park, Mortimer Terrace, Grosvenor Terrace, and Onslow Road. Asked about budget and prioritization the council declined to elaborate, but confirmed that 505 slips were reported in the last year. That’s 1.38 slips a day! The future promises more pressure, not less. A 2019 report prepared for the council by NIWA warned that increasingly extreme rainfall is likely to exacerbate slides and landslides. Ann Williams agrees—“With so much more intense rainfall, landslides are triggered much more frequently. A saturated landmass is more susceptible.” Recent earthquakes have shaken and loosened already fractured rock, causing rainfall to infiltrate more readily and hastening failure. A 2023 study in Geomorphology  found that under high-emissions warming scenarios, the intensity of rainfall in New Zealand could trigger more landslides per storm.  For those living in areas prone to landslides, recommendations of preventative measures include vegetating or hydroseeding slopes together by placing materials like mulch or coconut husk for added support, and ensuring roof gutters and drainage systems direct water away from slopes.  It’s important to remain vigilant, especially during severe weather or seismic events. atch for new cracking of the ground, driveways, or retaining walls, as well as tilting fences or trees. Slumping or bulging ground at the base of a slope, sticking doors and windows, or gaps where frames are not fitting properly could also be early indicators of impending landslide risk.  The sound of trees cracking or a faint rumbling, water appearing in places it usually does not, and the formation of new springs, seepages, and soggy ground are signs that a landslide might happen imminently, and you should evacuate immediately.  NZ Civil Defence advises warning neighbours and helping others if you can and staying away from the landslide area until it has been cleared by authorities. Once evacuated, you should contact emergency services (111) before the local council (04 499 4444), or campus security (0800 842 8888 or 04 463 9999) if the slide is on university property.  However, every student interviewed for this article admitted to limited confidence in identifying these warning signs. This is a clear indicator that more education and awareness of landslide risk is needed, both by the university and the government. Landslides continue to kill more of our people than any other natural hazard, and knowing what to look for and when to act could save you and your flatmates.

Georgia Wearing  Content Warning: Sexual Language, Sexual Themes, Drug Use The Guitarist He looked like Alex Turner. The headlining Guitarist jerked his head at me, pointedly, towards the backstage door. I followed him, giddy, giggling into the lip of my glass. I hadn’t seen a man up this close before. His eyes were dark, almost black, and the pencil liner in his waterline had dried and flecked, small shards now on his cheekbone. He looked worn in, scruffy, an alley dog. The music of the opening band was close to deafening, and I couldn’t make out the words he was mouthing until he leaned in, pressed his lips against my ear, and yelled his name. I yelled mine, my throat stretching as I tried to be heard above the squeaky guitar solo. He grinned, his fingers interlocking at the base of my neck before pushing upwards, knotting deep into the thick curls of my hair. His mouth was warm, and seemed endless, my tongue couldn’t escape his no matter how much it sought out the soft flesh of his cheeks, trying to time out behind his teeth. He twisted me around and pushed me up against two tall speakers, his boots and my heels tangling in the pile of cords and cables. I could barely focus on anything but his hand, flat against my abdomen, that was feeling out the layers of my skirt and underwear. I felt the cold silver ring on his right finger brush against my skin before he found me. I could feel the fingers that had expertly plucked at wiry cat-gut strings during the sound-check strumming and stretching me. I buried my face into his chest to hide it in case we were caught and from him, to conceal my excited expression. My mind focused only on how good a virginity story this would be; I’d be able to brag about it while other girls would only have sad shit to say. I’d be able to gloat about getting tongued and fingered backstage by a micro-rockstar. I’d bluff maybe that we’d also fucked and that he’d finished just as an MC called him to the stage, and he had to slip away, jogging, zipping up his pants, and running on stage, having to act cool and focused while still rock hard. Meanwhile, I tried to respond to his movements, guess what the next step was and beat him to it. I sunk my teeth into the slippery collar of his leather jacket, it tasted like gasoline. Looking back, he’d probably sourced it from an alleyway or in the lost and found for publicly disgraced indie artists. There were, after all, a number of ousted Wellington artists who had played two gigs, inflated their egos, and started hitting women. I opened to each of his black paint-polished tally marks, taking three before he heard something. He slipped out and stepped away, with the courtesy to walk backwards and smile, bite his lip, and give me a ‘call me’ signal. I bragged about it afterwards, being pushed up against the barricade, lifted by the mosh like a sacrificial groupie being offered to a moustached, mulleted god. He took a break during the second song to pour out the remainder of his vodka Redbull over his left hand, washing off my slick. I didn’t wait for him after the show; I was hoping he’d suck the rest of me off his fingers or leave me lingering on his guitar strings. The Guitarist, Again I was scrolling without looking, the way you do when your brain is somewhere else. I knew it was him before I’d even registered the photo. I scrolled back up; it was a photo of him and a girl. It seemed ‘friendly’; they were at a house party, tapping their beer bottles together, unsmiling, trying to out mog each other. I checked if he was tagged, he was. His account was filled with professional shots of him bent in a half- moon over a twilight-covered guitar, hair covering his eyes. I scrolled further than I should’ve, to a year ago when his hair was a washed-out blue and he hadn’t yet pierced his ears. He’d posted pictures of guitars, old friend groups from high school, and old girlfriends. They were all thin with pin-straight black hair and heavy goth eyeliner. I tapped on their profiles and studied them. A few were objectively prettier than me, a couple uglier, but they all shared his look — ripped vintage clothes and a penchant for partying in vandalised bunkers. But maybe I was a break in the pattern. His account followed me back, and I tried to draft him a message. Urban_brUmby:  Hey And then deleted it. Urban_brUmby: Hii, idk if you remember me but we kinda hooked up at that new boy gig a couple weeks back, was wondering if you wanted to grab a drink? I obviously deleted that and finally decided on: Urban_brUmby:  Hey, I’m heading out and would rather drink with company I saw him typing and threw my phone down on my bed, not wanting to watch his reply come through. SoChaotic: i’ve got some time after band practice, where u wanna go? Urban_brUmby:  You choose, tired of all my usual haunts He held my hand as we descended a dark set of stairs in a tucked-away alley. He pushed the door at the bottom, and it swung open. Inside, the bar was dimly lit. Stripped animal skulls were nailed to the walls, and at the edge of every dark booth was a folded faux fur blanket. In one corner, a large black piano gleamed, crowned with a waxy old candelabra. At the bar, we snuggled up next to each other. He was wearing the exact same thing as the night of the gig. I’d painstakingly selected something that could come off as effortlessly cool; dark washed jeans, a mini silk slip dress worn as a top and a short fur coat that smelt like an attic. It was an attempt to  look like I knew more about Courtney Love than just how to replicate her outfits. He ordered a straight whiskey, bottom-shelf. I asked for a cocktail menu, and the waiter placed both his hands on the bar and gave me an odd, theatrical grin. 'We don’t have a menu here, see, we’re kind of like a cult, tell me how you’re feeling and I’ll deliver something on par with that.' I was planning on doing the exact opposite of talking about feelings. I looked between the waiter and the Guitarist, who was watching me as if this was a test he put every girl through. What could I say that would be both normal and intriguing. 'I’m feeling warm and a little complicated. But don’t make me anything with gin, I hate gin.' The bartender flourished a nod and began pulling out bottles and shaking ice around, the Guitarist swallowed a mouthful of whiskey and tried to hide a grimace. Clearly, he wasn’t drinking it for the taste. A waiter walked by and placed a candle between us, the hot wax spilled, and a clear tear slid over the edge, solidifying halfway down before it hit the table. The candlelight cast shadows around our eyes like we were wearing masquerade masks. My drink arrived; it tasted like gin. Even though he’d drunk three glasses of whiskey he still tasted like cheap dive bar beer. His room had been cold when we arrived, messy, a testament that my being there was unplanned, unless he didn’t care what the girls he brought over thought of his place. It was my first time being in a man’s bedroom. He didn’t have a bedframe, just a mattress on the floor, but it made the space feel more spiritual, taking ‘grounded’ literally. While we kissed, I looked around, his guitar gleamed in its stand, shining, almost silver as the moonlight hit it. His room felt antithetical to mine. His was stripped-back, involuntarily minimalistic. I enjoyed kissing him, his lips were cold, each movement practiced. It felt like being eaten softly. He pulled off my clothes and threw my fur coat to one side. It slumped over like a dead animal. He felt strong, despite his thin, tall frame. I tried not to hesitate or look self-conscious as I unclasped my bra. I didn’t want to expose that—aside from what we’d done behind the speakers—I was a virgin. I resented the idea of being handled like a fragile object. I wanted sex that was just sex, not a tutorial or a gentler version of it. And yet, I still wanted everything to slow down so I could enjoy each new sensation, each new texture. The new expressions I’d unlocked—hunger, focus and a half-lidded look I couldn’t decipher. He leaned down and started feeling for something beside his bed, grabbed it and pulled back to tear open the gold condom with his teeth, asking while he did it if I wanted to keep going. I nodded, and he hunched over and slid it on. It hurt going in, like a piercing. But then it felt like he’d unlocked something. I gripped him. I felt full, complete, connected. I refocused, listened to my own heavy breaths, my moans, tried to steady them, make them sound hot and harmonise with his. My hands anchored to his chest, my back arched, bouncing on him like a pornstar. I caught my reflection in his mirror and focused on it, on the feedback a second perspective gave, I arched my back a bit more and tilted my head back. And then his whole body softened and he slid out. We both pulled away from each other and lay side by side, catching out breath. I finally understood it, the zeitgeist of sex. In the shower, we stood next to each other, scrubbing separately, neither offering to wash the other's back. Later, damp, under his sheets, he wrapped himself around me, our naked bodies pressed together like it was nothing. As soon as he fell asleep, I slipped out of his arms. I wanted him to wake up to me gone. To leave behind the impression that one-night stands were second-nature to me. I walked home—my underwear bundled up in my purse—past mothers walking their kids to school and working professionals rushing toward bus stops. My cervix ached but I felt healed somehow, as if chakra’s were real and my sacral one had been serviced. An imbalance within it was allegedly the root cause of emotional issues, lack of creativity and self- worth. Maybe that’s why I was struggling so much with my assignments, I needed to have sex. I did paint when I got home and my strokes did feel looser. I started to spend my sleepless nights at his gigs. I watched the stage from the balcony as it rotated musicians. I invited my classmates out with me, so it’d look like I had friends he needed to impress. I scrawled, ‘I fucked the guitarist’, on a graffitied bathroom stall wall. I started to prefer sleeping in his bed, when I was in his space it felt like I was balancing out my yin. I looked so much softer, more feminine, standing in his room than my own. My breasts more pronounced when I wore one of his band tees. I slept better in his clothes than I ever did in my lacy sweetheart sets. I enjoyed learning how I could initiate, make him hard simply by pressing my body into his crotch, parting his legs and pushing his guitar out of the way. But he wasn’t as devoted to masculinity as I was to being feminine. He was a man by default. He wasn’t assertive, his directionless starving artist lifestyle which had once seemed new and exciting had grown repetitive, the gigs stopped to ‘work on new music’. I started to outpace him, one round was no longer enough, I needed more. Sex became an addictive, dirty kind of art I kept wanting to make. He’d finish, roll over and groan when my naked body pressed up against him again. I was exiled to the side of the bed, to the bathroom, to fuck myself. Then he started to whine. We’d be opposite each other, half-dressed at midnight and he’d be bent over crying. He wailed about both being undiscovered and being known. He kicked his guitar and shredded pages of lyrics, his face scrunched up as he tried to squeeze out tears. He moaned about his parents’ divorcing when he was six, alternating between infatuation with his life and disillusionment. He confessed that it was only when he was drinking, heart-broken, or depressed that he could write good lyrics. That he had to be miserable for good art to leak out of him. I watched on as he deafened himself with Billie Holiday and Pink Floyd, played in an attempt to generate sadness. While he thought I was sleeping I listened to him mutter out new lyrics and tried to figure out if any of the lines were our relationship, our sex, dressed up with metaphors. But I enjoyed his company too much to let go, the feeling of a man next to me, his weight, those few moments he held me and not onto me. It had been long enough that we became attached concepts. Strangers stopped me on the way to class to ask if I knew about a possible new show, whether I was going to another brand’s event. I was never there to hear it but he must’ve started to experience it to, questions about me, my name hanging on the end of his. One morning, in doggy, he leaned down and whispered in my ear. 'I love you.' I said it back. Somehow, we worked. The next day when someone brought him up in passing, I casually shared that we were slowly getting serious, we didn’t have a label for it, but we didn’t need to. I posted a photo his friend had taken of us backstage, his arm was around me casually and he was looking at something out of frame, but it was us, proof that it wasn’t all words and graffiti. The next morning, he messaged me. SoChaotic:  let’s stop seeing each other. Art Smells Sleep had provided a temporary escape from everything, but I had to wake up, a deadline was coming up, and my canvas was blank. The art I’d been making while I was mentally absent exposed the extent of my emotional mess, it was disorganised, directionless. To my lecturer, it might’ve looked like grief, the death of my non- existent cousin impacting my ability to make art. To the people who’d seen me at parties, who knew those in the music scene, my art exposed the extent of my emotional mess. A deadline was coming up. My canvas was blank. I thought about his lyrics. I painted the Guitarist. I positioned him hunched over a smashed-up guitar. Amongst the broken pieces, a Luzon bleeding-heart dove is limp. The broken pieces around it bend inward like a punched-in skull. I actually asked a classmate for their notes on Audubon’s bird paintings, to help me replicate the feathers. The slate-coloured bird was playing dead; its bright red feathers in the centre of its chest a deception. I painstakingly replicated the sweat-soaked strands of hair that had covered his face, every time he performed under the stage lights. I didn’t know why I was doing this, why he was the only thing I felt compelled to paint. As I worked, I didn’t feel anything. He’d become a series of shapes, a subject with no say in how he changed, how I altered him to better fit the brief. It didn’t feel like an original idea, it felt like a response. When I finished, the paint was gleaming, the light reflected off the still wet brushstrokes. I used my fingers to blur his facial features into an unrecognizable blue. I blurred everything below his eyes, his nose, his cheekbones and then with the edge of my palm made one swipe across his brow as if to wipe away his sweat. I left his eyes, looking down at the bird, it was necessary to retain the original focal point. During the post-hand-in class showcase, I stood by my portrait. My sleeping pill hadn’t quite worn off so when I had to provide critique, I had to actively tell my eyes what to focus on. I hadn’t even thought about critiques when I’d handed my painting in, I didn’t have time either. When the discussion reached me, there was a pause, a moment where it felt like some people who’d intended to say something as soon as they had the chance chose not to. I caught someone’s head turning to exchange a look with the person next to them. But nothing came out of it, instead the focus was placed on whether I’d successfully made the bird look alive enough to sell it ‘playing dead’.

Chai: Chai drinkers will scold you for saying Chai Tea, and explain to you that you’re actually just saying the same thing twice. These drinkers will think that they’re better than you just because they don’t have to rely on their morning caffeine hit to wake up.  Hot Chocolate: Lets be honest, you don’t go to the cafe because you like to, do you? You order this to avoid the social anxiety of not ordering anything and sitting at the table empty handed. It’s okay, hot chocolate drinkers, just maybe talk to the doctor about your anxiety at your next appointment.  Tea: Tea drinkers, why are you paying $4 for a cup of tea when you could make one at home for a much lower price. Hell, VUWSA would probably let you borrow their kettle if it meant you weren't forking that money over to Big University. Tea drinkers, we love you, but learn to budget and chuck some tea bags in your tote bag.  Flat White: Do you actually know what you’re ordering, or is this just the coffee your Mum bought you once to try and you kept ordering it? You either know exactly what you want; simple, classy--or you have no idea what you want and are too scared to try something new.  Latte: Do you actually know what you’re ordering, or is this just the coffee your Dad bought you once to try and you kept ordering it? You either know exactly what you want; basic, elegant--or you are confused about what you want and too anxious to try something new. (Get the joke? You see, it's actually since they’re basically the same thing [laughs]).  Boba: Now, how did you sneak onto this list? Boba, you’re a weird texture and this author doesn't like you. If you order Boba you scare our editor. She doesn't believe this is actually anyone's favorite. Next.   Espresso Martini: Now, where did you find this on Campus? At Salient we are impressed (and want to know your secrets). Probably not the best wakeup before your classes but a great end to the long workweek. Bartenders will hate you though, as soon as you order one of these everyone else at the bar wants one… you trend setter, you.  Long Black: You spent all your money going to town, didn’t you? That’s okay, just maybe learn how to budget next week. You know that you don’t have to buy everyone a round at Dakota, right? Or you’re just a VUW staff member, they all seem to drink this one (and I don’t think they’re going to Dakota).  Espresso: You are what Chai drinkers fear. Caffeine has you in a choke hold and that’s okay, you just need the quickest fix possible. You took a gap year to travel to Europe and loved a morning espresso in Italy and now it's your key personality trait, along with your English Lit degree.  Iced Latte: Have you put the pride flag up in your hall room yet? Iced Coffee (with cream): You’re either queer or questioning. You accidentally ordered this thinking it would be an iced latte and your IBS isn’t going to like you later. But that’s okay, you’re not going to say anything so let's not even pretend you’ll send it back.   Smoothie: You probably skipped breakfast and want a smoothie to make yourself feel better about it. Don’t worry, I’m not going to make fun of you. I’m just proud of you for eating before lunchtime, keep up the good work.

Te Urukeiha Tuhua  Last year’s student elections for Victoria University of Wellington’s Student Association (VUWSA) saw a huge leap in candidates, with significantly more people running than in recent years.  Importantly, it was the first contested race for presidency since 2018, when current Wellington Central Member of Parliament Tamatha Paul was elected.  Now that the buzz has settled down and executive members have moved into their new roles, Salient reached out to hear about what they have planned for 2026.  The main priority for President Aidan Donoghue this year is to focus students’ attention to the 2026 general elections, and to campaign for students to make their voices heard by politicians. He said that VUWSA will soon be launching their new campaign, Show Up or Shut Up.  “We've modeled this off the successes of other fantastic campaigns, like the living wage movement,” he said. He wants to engage students across all three campuses by increasing VUWSA’s presence at both Te Aro and Pipitea campuses.  Donoghue said that the Student Action Hui is a way for VUWSA to directly engage and work with students on campaigns, and find out what issues are at the forefront for students heading into the election. The hui will take place on Wednesday 18 March at 5:30pm in the Hunter Lounge.  Previously established VUWSA-led campaigns including Where’s the Work?, Winter Energy Payment, and Study Wage for All will continue in the background, and will also be brought to the hui to see if there’s still demand for them.  Donoghue remains set on establishing a non-profit op-shop on campus, however no timeline has been set as of yet.  “I’m hoping it’ll be within my term, but it is happening.”  Donogue’s ideas are currently in the planning stages, so students won’t yet see the direct impact of his presidency.  Meanwhile, Welfare Vice President Aspen Jackman is passionate about the return of a dedicated women’s space on campus. She said that she gathered data last year after putting out a survey to find out whether this was important to students.  “We got a resounding yes,” she said.  “There’s still misogyny and prejudice against women and gender diverse students.” She said that results from the survey suggested some people are afraid to be on campus, and that after attending classes many women and gender minorities would like a safe space they can go to study.  She intends to create this space at Kelburn Campus initially and then expand it to both Te Aro and Pipitea campuses, but was unable to give Salient a timeline. She said she is waiting to hear back from Property Services about available rooms, and that while they seemed “pretty on board”, added that they also “could be a little more eager.”  Jackman also said that she is organising a drugs week in week 7, which will be centered around drugs education and involve “fun events, a quiz, a political debate.”  She said that the need for drugs education has increased as there’s been a shift in student drug use. “Previously it’s been more alcohol and more marijuana… but it’s shifted to more ketamine and MDMA.”  Jackman said that people need to be aware that MDMA and ketamine are often not MDMA and ketamine. “Get drugs tested,” she said. “That’s really important.”  Know Your Stuff NZ tested over 1000 samples in February and March 2025, and found that 7% of samples had results inconsistent with the drug it was presumed to be. Further data on drug testing can be found on their website.  During drugs week, Jackman wants students to be able to have “good faith discussions with politicians” and “ask politicians questions in these debates”. She said that drug policies can be introduced as election promises.  “It’s important that people are educated on party stances going in, especially with a wave of new voters.”  Jackman will be getting a consensus on what students need through regular welfare drop-in sessions which will happen three times per trimester at each campus. She said that this will help the welfare team to “make changes within the uni that are actually important to the students.”  She mentioned that there will be changes to the Student Equity and Diversity Committee to make it  robust and to include other equity groups across the university.  On the other end of the spectrum, Academic Vice President Ethan Rogacion told Salient that this year the university is undergoing the Curriculum Transformation Project, a multi-year project that places academic policy under review. He said that one of the focuses of this will be considering whether 15-point or 20-point courses should be the baseline for undergraduate courses.  “Both of them have different workload implications,” he said.  He has received feedback from students who are finding that their 15-point courses often have a higher workload than their 20-point courses. “The New Zealand Qualifications Framework actually says that one point is meant to be equivalent to around 10 hours of work,” Rogacion said.  “These students signed up for theoretically 150 hours, but they’re there day in, day out, weekend, mid-tri breaks, and that is fundamentally unfair.”  He said that he views student workload holistically, and that a large part of student workload comes from external factors.  “Students more and more are becoming increasingly time poor because they have to balance increasing workloads here at the university with the rising cost of living.”  “For a lot of students, it’s becoming more of a sacrifice to come to university because that’s time that you could be making money on shifts.”  Rogacion said that the elections will be at the front of mind for VUWSA this year. “Students are the only class of people who have to borrow money to survive.”  “Students are struggling all across the board. I do what I can within the university, but a lot needs to happen down the road at The Beehive as well.”  Rogacion said that he wants students to be at the core of all decision making within the university, and that there are mechanisms for students to make their voices heard. One way he will help ensure this is by bringing back the Student Academic Committee, which he said is a forum for faculty clubs and groups to discuss changes happening in academic policy with VUWSA and university leadership.  “There are very few instances where students are able to directly engage with university leadership.”  “The more that students can feed into decisions, the better they’ll be for students.”  With election campaigning, welfare initiatives, and academic reform all on the agenda, the executive has set an ambitious course for 2026. Whether these plans gain traction (and student buy-in) will become clearer as the year progresses.  Engagement Vice President Charlotte Lawrence was unavailable for an interview when contacted by Salient .

Guy van Egmond Nau mai and welkom to Munch , your weekly guide to a bite to eat that won’t devour your budget. I’ll be your taste-tester of Wellington’s finest frugality; your penny-pinching truffle-pig to hunt down dining deals. My appetite is both discerning and decent, so if I’m full, trust that you will be too. But besides taste and portions, I also want to share the places in town that look after you—that feel homely (or surprisingly swanky)—and those that make their meals accessible. However, above all, Munch is concerned with value.  It pisses me off when food blogs tout deals such as half-price oysters or an $8 bao bun. I’m sure these have a demographic, but if I’m looking for a meal—one of those three-times-a-day affairs—then a gourmet little taster is useless to me.  Of course, a column about where to eat out will nonetheless cater to a select audience. I am very fortunate that I’ve never truly had to worry about having the money to feed myself, while for other people this is a very regular concern. So Munch  will be as much a challenge as it is fun, because I want to find the places that truly anyone could eat at.  A meal cooked by someone else can be a joy, a convenience—a form of art that sustains you. Bourdain once said something along the lines of, as a chef, I am in the pleasure business . And who doesn’t deserve some pleasure in these trying times?  Everybody Eats What: Three-course menu (rotates daily) Price:  Pay-what-you-can When:  Sun–Wed; 6:00–8:00pm Where:  60 Dixon Street A safe and socially-conscious place to turn, early in the week.  ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Let’s start the year with a staple in the heart of the city:  Everybody Eats.  Just off Cuba Street, this “social dining concept” is open four evenings a week, serving a set three-course menu that changes each day. Each meal is made primarily with rescued food from businesses and charities—what’s donated dictates what’s plated. The cuisine tends to reflect what’s available elsewhere in Wellington: largely Western/European or Asian-fusion fare, always with a vegetarian option.  On the menu tonight was, to start, bruschetta topped with an avocado-ricotta cream and a tomato-and-pineapple salsa. This was followed by a ham and potato cabbage parcel with creamed chard & orange slaw (vegetarians could swap the ham for green beans), and a banana caramel cake for dessert.  As meals go, this covered a real dietary range. Everybody Eats  will get you your 5-a-day and makes for a dependably tasty, nutritious dinner. The bruschetta was a nice little canapé—nothing radical, but the balance of bright salsa on a smooth cream was well-paired.  The main course was quite light, mostly salty and creamy in flavour, but it had something homely to it, and the orange slaw brought much needed colour and brightness, like the starter’s salsa.  The fluffy banana caramel cake was—surprisingly—not too sweet and complemented well by a yogurt drizzle. However, the cake was also the most filling course of the meal, and the bar for that was low. The bruschetta was, in fact, one bruschetta, and the ham parcel was a singular, neat package. Everybody Eats  has an incredibly high turnover and they stretch the food they receive a long way, but this does result in portions that err small.  That is my only critique. It’s a dependable place for a healthy, homely meal that does good beyond just your belly. Their open-plan dining area aims to tackle social isolation and leads to fascinating conversations between people from across in the city. Each meal is offered on a pay-what-you-can basis, so those with more can cover their own meal and another’s, while those with less can eat easy. If you have the cash or time, I encourage you to pay or volunteer for a night. But if you don’t, know that here you will be looked after.

Elio Mikoi  the woman in black begged me to take her husband / she was a gentle figure of horror / and so i did. / i exist as her husband’s darkest secret / i’m not even back in black yet. / rough bites and cuts / swollen lips and bruised wrists / bodies swelling with pride. / his body is unforgiving, / and i am no priest to forgive such vindication.  inhabit me, instill jealousy and love within me / his skin leaves me delirious / his hands leave me hungry, breathless. / and i chant in the midnight air, / i will be her. / but nights like this / make my body swell with shapes of darkness / i could not make anyone —myself included— understand. / i am hungry for touch / i am begging for love / i am craving for desire / and i am ashamed to be looked at.  i exist to show someone their shame / nonetheless, i am embarrassed to be desired, / where the low, aching hum of life’s greatest horrors / has become the base of my despair, where my wings have remained at the greatest length of time. / say shame has left a permanent scarlet mark, / say my disgrace has been the world’s obsession, / say i roam for days until a body meets a body / burn my tongue. / my body is being crucified with the sins of her husband / he made a river of wine out of me / and a pomegranate out of my rib / he took seven pomegranate seeds / and now he can never leave. / she knew he was not pure. / she knew he was tainted. / she his nightly secrets, where his limbs tangled / with the graves of his sins and his blooming lungs. / she called for me to fix him / she demanded for his insides to be shown, / cast in marble, an exhibit to the shame of the world. / she wanted him to be hated, / and i wanted to be wanted.  he turned my body into a cathedral, him the lone worshiper, / with his knees on the ground, / his lips all over my body. / and he prayed, please keep me safe . / how could i not listen to his prayer, him with scraped knees? / so i drank the wine from the cup of his hand. / here is / where my body was illuminated with blinding light / and five angels came down from where they are / a hand on my throat, a hand on my wrist, / one on my waist, / two on my shoulders, / two on my thighs, / one cupping the back of my head / one in my eyes / and one inside the fleshy heart of my body. / the center of my body / a river of dionysus, / where anyone could drink and their prayers will be heard, / he drank and drank, a parched sinner. / when the last drop brushed over his lips like the last pomegranate seed, / i felt like crying.  the scene unfolded like a vision in his wife’s dream, and i heard her scream / from miles away, tears of blood flowing, tip-tapping across her cheeks. / you / i want to melt you with the stars until you can no longer withstand your light. / you / i want to fill your river with acid, burn a parched tongue / i want to bite / you / out of the fruit / you / i, cursed to sink without a sound into the sea of my despair. / but darling, dearest, you could never do that / the nightmare that you’ve created. / his hands on my feet, my hands on his, / his hands on my heart, my hands on his eyes, / his hands on my life, and mine on his death / or his hands on my glory, and mine to his shame. / burn me in the stars until i am filled with feverish dust / fill me with acid,  my ribs will remain / bite me from the fruit, my seeds will linger in my heart / sink me into my sea of despair, i am addicted to it. i have been a homesick angel, i haven’t seen my wings in a while. / but when his hands caressed the scars on my back, / i found my home within his touch. / his sins will become stars, which i will extinguish / my angels will weep, but my river will comfort their hearts / my mouth will burn as i kiss the taint from him. / i never wanted to be the cleanser of their sins. / but i never tried to be untainted, nor pure. / they ask for offerings, they ask for  sacrifice, / they ask for my answer and when i bring my existence / they curse me for my oppugnant decisions. / they only wanted me to exist in a way that comforted them / never mind my unease. / and the only time i felt comfort was in the hands of my sinner.  if my angels knew that my curse is everywhere / even in the river of my own creation, / where my sinner weeps with forgiveness, endlessly blooming at the centre / doing this with every ounce of desperation, / to be forgiven / to be clean, to be new — / i swept him off of his feet, scraped knees and bloodied achilles’ heels, / his murmured prayers from his lips to mine, / then i stopped feeling raw, blue, half-eaten, rotting from the endless dream to be / loved and wanted / the curtains fell from heaven. Author Bio:  Elio Mikoi is a poet, essayist, author, and frustrated creative in a STEM field. They write queer, myth-drenched prose and poetry where desire, shame, Asian experiences, and devotion move as one. Their poems are published on Instagram (@eliomikoi) and Substack (philtatos).