Content Warning: illness, trauma, mental health, blood, fertility, self-harm, death & abuse about being in the bathroom for hours in the blazing heat, hammer it to a fairy tale, let me sleep for years, all those winters for evil, bury it, bury it, under the snow, I really can't do it justice, no windows because I'm screaming or it sounds guttural, that pull before bearing down or death, and I feel it, in my thighs and my back and my hips and my throat, I couldn't eat all day and I had to run or stumble or crawl, bile, lumps on my tongue, tablets half-dissolved, never timed well or strong enough so sit on the toilet to empty the whole of my body until it is a sliver of flesh, sweat, ash or ghost or I used to have a face, vomit over and over and over in the sink and my insides are beaten with echoes or glass or burning, shaking until the room is barely a shell for existence that breaks away in hot atoms, lie down for the afterlife, see what the blood could have been, count another number of days, yes, a month is a lie, as is everything, that this pain feels deserving, is punishment for all future sins, the psychiatrist they sent me to made sure of it, then he sat back and laughed, kissed the money and watched the tide swallow the red dusk. About the author:
Louise Mather is a writer from Northern England and founding editor of Acropolis Journal. A finalist in the Streetcake Poetry Prize, her work is published in various print and online literary journals including The North, Acumen, Fly on the Wall Press, Dust Poetry Magazine, Cape and Ink, Sweat and Tears. Her debut pamphlet ‘The Dredging of Rituals’ was published in 2021. She writes about ancestry, rituals, endometriosis, fatigue and mental health. Twitter @lm2020uk IG: louise.mather.uk
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The pain runs deep with so much hurt carried on the current, looking back seeing all that was done, the suffering all at the hands of others, yet having no regret, no ill wishes for those at the helm of what was done. I see the beauty that was always surrounding me, the dew on the grass glistening in the morning sun, the hugs of the evening colors as they set on the horizon, wrapping me and caressing me to see all that is good. Sitting in the rain feeling and absorbing the tears of others so all would have less to bear. Each drop that strikes me awakens the soul, smiling as the water cascades down my face and arms, soon my body will be part of the storm waiting to subside and pass, able to move on. Storms and turbulence can last for years, always there, lurking and waiting, dark clouds sit on the horizon. Where all bad memories rest and sleep, there is beauty to be found, the beauty that lives, the beauty that longs to be seen and felt. This was you. When my days were full of misery and my soul so lost, you were the brightness that guided me to a haven, a place where love was felt. Your beauty was internal, your caring I thought unmatched, your touch so warm and kiss so gentle. I cannot hate you for what you have done, that is a job for others. I can only see you as who I knew you were, even if you didn’t. After each storm, there is a rainbow to be seen, in the darkest hours I see and feel all you created, never to be taken away. In time all will be healed the scars, though there will be harder to see, the pain will be less and less, and the hurt will be locked away. The beauty you created will live forever unobscured by all that was taken. The beauty of life knows no boundaries, escapes all hate, and repels the evil that so easily can be consumed. The beauty will create smiles, laughter, and joy when packing and leaving for the next journey. About the author:
After 31 years in banking, it was time for John to retire and follow his dream of owning a hotel in Southeast Asia. This led to many new experiences enabling John to see the world through a different lens, leading him to write his story through essays, poetry, and a yet unpublished memoir. John’s work has appeared in Native Skin, Runamok Books/Growerly, Post Roe Alternatives, Empyrean Literary Magazine, OMQ, Open Door Magazine, SCARS poems and short stories, among others. Nothing is as it seems, and experiences are meant to shape us not define us. Life has hope, truth, and adventure, all leading to stories that need to be written and told.
“I’ll never hurt you” is the phrase I still hear The lies and untruths that were told The false accusations that were made So many people knew your truth No one spoke up and now I am here A year in prison because I found out Even now, I don’t blame or hate You did what he told you to do So now I wait and fight for me To gain my innocence and be free All my years I never thought I could be so betrayed All those times you called me dear Every word you ever spoke and said It resonates so loud in my ears All these years I never knew I kept my promise Made your dreams come true I look back on this past year Behind bars in a foreign land I used to wonder why, but now I know I still believe he gave you no choice To save yourself or me It’s hard for me to know what you’ve done But I don’t hate you, I guess that’s love Now I must think about how to rebuild To get back what was stolen and took I gave you all and had no regrets I thought I could save you but in the end The actions of you betrayed us all Life will go on that is for sure The wounds that were caused will never heal I have forgiven all that was done I will always remember being betrayed One thing will never change I believed in all that you could be I hope that in the years to come No one does to you what you did to me About the author:
After 31 years in banking, it was time for John to retire and follow his dream of owning a hotel in Southeast Asia. This led to many new experiences enabling John to see the world through a different lens, leading him to write his story through essays, poetry, and a yet unpublished memoir. John’s work has appeared in Native Skin, Runamok Books/Growerly, Post Roe Alternatives, Empyrean Literary Magazine, OMQ, Open Door Magazine, SCARS poems and short stories, among others. Nothing is as it seems, and experiences are meant to shape us not define us. Life has hope, truth, and adventure, all leading to stories that need to be written and told.
A sky so bright this crisp morning of Spring Tulips are fading away and start their departure Lilacs await to appear, buds beginning to pop to present their fashion of white, purple, and deep reds. Closing my eyes, I can smell the essence of my aunts. The fragrance hugs and holds me tight, giving me a little pinch on the cheeks. I see them lining the streets in their Sunday bests, waving and smiling as I stroll by. Cherry blossoms of glory pink lie on the sidewalk in wait, creating a cotton candy carpet to wrap my feet. Trodden by hundreds before me yet fresh and luscious still the same, as if touched for the first time, a virgin to me. The beauty I’m surrounded by reminds me of all that has been taken for granted as I begin my sixtieth summer. I’m like an Oak or Maple that casts a canopy over this avenue I walk. So much has been seen and witnessed in all these years. The scars I bear upon my bark and within my rings. Arms outstretched as a protector for those who walk underneath. Shield all from the elements and let this encourages the being to open up and absorb the the warmth of all that lives and all that is being spoken through the beauty that exists. About the author:
After 31 years in banking, it was time for John to retire and follow his dream of owning a hotel in Southeast Asia. This led to many new experiences enabling John to see the world through a different lens, leading him to write his story through essays, poetry, and a yet unpublished memoir. John’s work has appeared in Native Skin, Runamok Books/Growerly, Post Roe Alternatives, Empyrean Literary Magazine, OMQ, Open Door Magazine, SCARS poems and short stories, among others. Nothing is as it seems, and experiences are meant to shape us not define us. Life has hope, truth, and adventure, all leading to stories that need to be written and told.
Blood has been insecure since birth. Become scepter the red eyes of the womb And there are volcanoes And they are dormant. Thus lost Have lost And will lose chance the alleys To meet the highway And revolution to meet the definition of silence. About the author:
Partha Sarkar, a resident of Ichapur, a small town of a province West Bengal Of India, is a graduate who writes poems inspired by the late Sankar Sarkar and his friends (especially Deb kumar Khan) to protest against the social injustice and crimes against nature. His poems have been in different magazines both in Bangla and in English. Once, he would believe in revolution but now he is confused because of the obscurity of human beings, though he keeps fire in soul despite.
at the window aching for outside sick friends online getting sicker purple heart emoji exhaustion burning up the body dawn i give dad the bitter salad left on my plate handled everyday made smooth grief december rain i’m missing so much of myself About the author:
Sol Howard is a chronically ill trans writer. They have been bedbound with severe ME/CFS for two years. They have plans for lots of novels and short stories about queer people surviving and thriving, but due to illness they currently struggle to write anything else than short form poetry.
This is me: A blood-damaged eye, Inguinal hernias, Deaf in one ear, An arthritic knee, An electronic heart. So, I cannot see, hear, walk Or breathe well, And this is every day. Yet the thoughts are stronger, My pasts become longer, There is nowhere to go But the future. Thence, who knows what I will be. In the meanwhile. there are many who care. But this is my eighty-first year – And what is my way Is an uncertain fear Of today. About the author:
Rob Lowe feels somehow surprised and grateful to have reached eighty, and to be happy sharing a home in Milton Keynes (U.K.) with an epidemiologist niece who also acts as his carer. He has been writing therapeutically for much of his life, but submitting work for publication only during the last six years, with some success, after early discouragements. Dwell Time, a mental health/literary/arts magazine, has accepted pieces, as have Seventh Quarry, Aromatica Poetica, Disability Arts Cymru, and other sympathetic print and online journals.
Kat and me leg it for the last bus drunk as a pair of skunks it’s brass monkeys out the sky lit up bright with pub lights we’ve supped in them all drink after drink after drink The Mucky Duck Coach & Eight The King’s Head The Mill People spill out onto the pavement head for the only take-away in town where last week Ryan Bridgewater was stabbed fell through the shop window Kat and me have missed the bus ran out of steam money and fags we hitch a ride with a group of lads I left town never looked back Kat stayed had a bairn at fifteen Later she meets my uncle at Rehab He gives me Kat’s number says ring her I don’t call What can I say? Sorry we got into that car Sorry I left you behind Not sorry I got away About the author:
Rachel Burns is a writer living with disability and chronic illness. She lives on the outskirts of Durham, England. Her debut poetry pamphlet, A Girl in a Blue Dress, is published by Vane Women Press. She is published in literary magazines including Butcher Dog, Mslexia, The Rialto, The Moth, and Magma Poetry. Rachel was shortlisted in the 2017 Keats-Shelley Prize, came second in The Julian Lennon Prize For Poetry 2021, and was longlisted in The National Poetry competition 2021.
I’m reading Matthew Dickman, keeping my sunglasses on, listening to new arrivals lament their eye problems to reception. A man in denim, jacket pinned with rock god badges has the attention of the waiting room, says the weekend in A&E was busier still, here till midnight the nurses agree – it was diabolical. Paul is back Monday, losing his sight jokes about seeing everyone in double. About the author:
Rachel Burns is a writer living with disability and chronic illness. She lives on the outskirts of Durham, England. Her debut poetry pamphlet, A Girl in a Blue Dress, is published by Vane Women Press. She is published in literary magazines including Butcher Dog, Mslexia, The Rialto, The Moth, and Magma Poetry. Rachel was shortlisted in the 2017 Keats-Shelley Prize, came second in The Julian Lennon Prize For Poetry 2021, and was longlisted in The National Poetry competition 2021. Disability Poetics Course: https://www.creativefuture.org.uk/events/disability-poetics/
this ghost and me, we’re both mourning the same thing we miss the smell of rain evaporating off hot pavement air conditioner blast shivering against sweaty air fingers sticky ice cream dripping soles melting onto pavement we miss our bodies in the city (Originally published in you are here: the journal of creative geography) About the author:
Meep Matsushima is a poet and librarian. Her poetry has appeared in Strange Horizons, Microverses, Liminality Magazine, and other fine publications. Say “hi” on Twitter @meep_matsushima or read more of her poetry at http://meep-matsushima.neocities.org. |
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