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Monsters,

I say this to clarify, for it seems you do not know who I…


By Cristina Conti

This heat is a weird heat
Much like your eyes are a special kind of valuable to you

Neither make sense until you think how wasteful it all is

Your eyes, lies
Their heat, pretend

Tulips gifted in distraction’s name — lovely bandaids I guess, nothing more I’m sure
Spare them next time so at least one of us will live

Poor, pretty tulips
Poor, pretty rose

If a flower, I’d want to be wild, crooked, but sort of dull too
so nobody plucks me for my beauty just to force me into a role of their choosing in the “love…


of a woman

By artmim

I was not where I claimed to be?
Did you really just say that to me?

What?
Am I where?

I am indeed wherever I am, so yes, I guess?

I’m not sure what you are asking me.
Please be more specific.
I’m all ears.

But you didn’t mean for a long response.
Most people can’t handle it anyway.

And “it” is me —You may freely walk away,
or at least that’s how you behave.

But if I’m so disposable,
why must that leash be kept so tight?

Is it that an unrestrained target would be too hard to tame?
You’d…


What happened when I overlooked the neglect of my own child

By JenkoAtaman

I remember it so vividly, which is odd considering how little color I saw that day. It was a cumulative event, which is strange because it was unveiled so suddenly to me.

This day was like the trip you spent years dreaming, months planning, and weeks packing for. This day was like the clay you carefully kneaded, molded, and crafted into the perfect mirror image of your perfect, made-up life. But on this day you flung all of those suitcases open. And on this day, you shattered your clay as it came from the oven.

Though things had been going…


A bipolar love triangle

By Kertu

My tattoos don’t have ink, but they aid me more than you may think because I look at them and I remember that days may get dark, but we’ll never part, please forgive my doubt, my dear depression

Please tell me you’ll let us take walks down the block and do more than just talk to each other because sometimes I tire of what tends to transpire from our conversations

Your words touch my tongue, travel down, fill my lungs, convince me I’ll never get better, and you remind me I’m through if I try to survive without you but…


Four things I can do without my real name

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

I’ve heard the argument that writing under a pseudonym makes an author’s work less valuable, less authentic, less vulnerable. While I personally have a differing opinion, I can understand the sentiment if it’s coming from someone who bares their soul to the world writing revealing essays, poems, and novels for all to read.

Whenever sensitive content is shared with the intention of helping others, I commend the effort, especially when the writer uses their real name. I can’t help but to give credit where credit is due. I admit It’s a brave thing to do.

Writing under your real name…


A poem on escaping domestic violence

By Jacob Lund

For everyone who cares to ask
going back to him will be the last
thing I will ever allow to happen
despite the want and the temptation because
there's a comfort in the cage you're trapped in
but there’s a peace that comes when you finally leave him

So to everyone in these shoes
know that you can make it too
I pass no judgment, I understand
how you get stuck, your feet in sand

but believe in yourself and take the risk
and never again will he raise a fist to you
what a life that would be; It’s the…


By Eastlyn Bright

It started with a slip, a simple trip, you know?
I slid down from where I had chosen to sit, there on the window sill
but I didn’t fall all the way down, my knees didn’t touch the ground — this time

You didn’t offer a reason to quit, another place to sit, you know?
So I just kept trucking along, kept singing the same love songs
out of another’s sliding square door, left my baggage on that floor — this time

It ended when my feet hit the ground, it felt so slow, you know?
I slumped down from the…

Juliette Roanoke

Mother. Neuroscience, critical care, and home infusion registered nurse. Mental health combatant. Social justice seeker. Reach out: julietteroanoke@gmail.com

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