I was always the broken one,
a jagged shard of mirrored light.
The fairest of them all--
but they never told me
fairness was a curse.
When they laid me in the glass coffin,
the dwarves wept salt that carved
rivers in their faces.
They did not know
the coffin was not a tomb
but a lens.
Through it, I saw the prince’s approach,
his perfect features fractured
by the warped glass.
I saw the cracks in his smile,
the pity behind his eyes.
I saw myself as they saw me:
a body polished and preserved,
an object too fragile to touch
but too pretty to let go.
So I shattered the glass
with my unkissed lips,
cut my way out of their story,
and left the prince bleeding on the forest floor.
He called me wicked,
but wicked is just what they name us
when we break the molds
they cast us in.
I wandered until I found a mirror
that didn’t lie.
And in its broken face,
I saw my own reflection--
whole at last.

Ella Enchanted couldn't get the Glass Slipper on,
let alone imagine dancing the night away until midnight;
swollen feet and broken dreams, she stayed indoors and slept
her life away. Her Fairy Godmother gave her beautiful dreams,
of coaches made of pumpkins, horses that once were mice,
footmen who were all lizards and a coachman who remains a rat.
Her dirty rags transformed magically into a beautiful dress,
an amazing hallucination dream, where everything is possible.
Night terrors they call it, night sweats, another symptom in a land
where illness is queen, but what of her handsome king, waiting?
Another day another symptom, spinning webs of falling dreams
from worn down spindles, so much pain to be a sleeping beauty,
horrible power of invisible diseases, creeping, crawling, crying,
wishing on a purple star, one day she’ll find her happily ever now.

About the author:
Peter Devonald is a UK based poet/screenwriter who has lived with disability most of his life. He is winner Waltham Forest Poetry 2022, Heart Of Heatons Poetry Awards 2023 & 2021, joint winner FofHCS 2023 and second in Shelley Memorial Poetry 2024. Finalist in Tickled Pink ekphrastic contest 2024, highly commended Hippocrates Prize and Passionfruit Review 2024, shortlisted for OxCanalFest Poetry 2024, Saveas & Allingham 2023. Poet in residence Haus-a-rest, Forward Prize nominated, two Best Of The Net nominations and widely published including Broken Spine Anthology, London Grip, Door Is A Jar, Bluebird Word, Vipers Tongue, Voidspace and Loft Books. 50+ film awards, former senior judge/ mentor Peter Ustinov Awards (iemmys) and Children’s Bafta nominated.

www.scriptfirst.com
Instagram: @peterdevonald
Facebook: @pdevonald
Twitter/X: petedevonald

​I’m tired of all the prayers and the apologies
People who care tell me I need to stop
apologizing, but for once—-I am Not The One
Apologizing. Not apologizing for my existence, as
one of my close friends always tells me.
Stop apologizing for existing. But, how can I stop
when everyone seems to want to tell me that they are sorry for me?
I don’t want your prayers or your ‘fake apologies’, because
“the world doesn’t end, it just feels like it does.”
I don’t know who I’m supposed to be when everyone
keeps using their teacher pointer-finger to tell me that
something is wrong with my body.
My entire life, my own father asked me what was wrong with me,
but not because he cared. I stopped having an answer to give people
whenever they asked me this. When will people stop pointing their finger
At Me? I’m not a circus attraction, I’m a human being.
You’re sorry that this ‘happened’ to me? If someone else tells me this,
I will fucking flee! I’m tired of the fake sympathy and the fake apologies.
I’m tired of the unrealistic optimism—the unrealistic words that “maybe you will outgrow it.
Sometimes if you are diagnosed when you are younger,
you will outgrow it by the time you are old.” Just stop.
Just fucking stop. Just stop with the stares, the prayers, and the apologies.
I’ve expected the mourning of my own body, so why can’t you?
Why do you feel the need to heal me? I don’t want to be healed
and I didn’t ask for it. "But, does the world really end?
They say it just feels like it does. But, would I actually rather be me?"
Who is this version of me that everyone else sees? Who is she?

Quotations in italics taken from the song, ​"I'd Rather Be Me', from the Mean Girls Musical.

Forest, dark and scary.   Will I lose the
magic beans?   Animals speak,
ogres growl, and wolves disguised.
Fairy tales read to me as a child,
are remembered as an adult. 
 
My story begins with a black, pointed hat
and scraggly broom.  A witch suddenly
appears, casts a spell, and causes a stroke
that almost kills me.   Grey matter twisted,
and the enchantress short circuits my brain.
 
Aphasia is a serpent that stings,
an ordeal of shadows and contrasts.
My mind is filled with jumbled shapes,
nonsense words, and mixed-up colors.
Demons shout sinister curses.  Still cloudy,
but I see the sun start to peek through.

It started with pain between
the shoulder blades, like Nyx
had placed the eclipsed moon
inside, forever hidden.
 
A calcified cave – a coiled cloak
of darkness enfolded the softness
that remained of that body. I wore
it well, this forever home.
 
The pain dissolved into rain as the
storm coaxed clouds to empty.
I felt better then, filled with water,
forever heavy.
 
A delicious soft foot, I learned
to contract like lightning bolts,
relax like mulch. And moved faster
than I had forever.
 
My power oozed from my mouth,
sleek slimy stringy mucus, no
longer a cough burden. Fast comet
tail highways forever.
 
My shell expanded with calcified
excitement, the night and I foolish
friends, free in this shadow air,
forever healthy.

​Once,   in   a   moonlit   forest,   a   female  felt  a
foreboding  fog  of her future and rested her head
against   a   felled   oak   tree.  The  lobed  leaves
caressed  her  brow, creating  a  crown of weaved
green. As she slept, her delicate  cheek absorbed
the wheels of time – the  wide  of  the  good years
and the narrow of the dry barren.   And acorns fell
one  at  a  time through the quiet air, landing in the
soft  soil  with  expectation. When  she  woke,  her
arms caught in branches and her hair was a hat of
luscious  leaves.  She  tried  to  pull  herself  away,
but   the  acorns  edged  ever  closer – their  shiny
heads  like accusatory fingers. Go, she whispered,
I  cannot  take  care  of  you. But the acorns didn’t
answer,  just waited patiently for her roots to grow.

And if you’d have waited,
just another six months,
I know where we’d be.
 
On that boat in Ullswater,
eating gingerbread in Grasmere,
if you’d have waited.
 
Wandering through doors of Wordsworth,
building daisy chains in the graveyard,
that’s where we’d be.
 
Treading the paths of Ambleside,
camping in an undersized tent,
if you’d have waited.
 
Then, your house,
to your bed, each other’s arms,
is where we’d be.
 
And we’d be having the sex,
all you couldn’t wait for.
If you’d have waited,
that’s where we’d be.

About the author:
Holly Bars is a Leeds poet, currently studying MA Creative Writing at the University of Leeds. She has been published in The Moth, Stand, The London Magazine, Ink, Sweat & Tears, and more. Her debut collection, "Dirty", centred on surviving child sexual abuse, is published with Yaffle Press. 

Foreword
This poem is nothing like the one above,
Dear Reader,
I write for you, and me.
Together we share.
In light and in darkness. And the rest.
I will be selfish a moment in that Western sense,
Laying all out my woes to see,
Bless you for reading and let us heal pains through words.
 
A palette of pain I shall lay down, its tale is writ.
As I wake today, crumpled like paper,
do not try to iron me out.
My creases are dark, damp, stale,
something is sour too.
Oh, it is me. What a shame I say to myself.
 
Do not try to ease me with your positivity,
That toxic type, but you mean well. I am guilty too.
We all want to rescue.
You. And you. You, and you. And me.
 
Mild, Severe, Intermittent.
What is your score, RAW I answer,
One – to – ten. Oh, I will not say TEN.
Fear of Judgement, no, no, no,
I learnt that. I learnt my lesson fast.
How may I express myself in this agony? A seven will do.
Do you want pain relief. Oh yes, I do.
 
Deformed, malleable, throbbing, sharpened blades,
You loud thing.
Yet I cannot localise you. You little thug n thief of JOY.
I cancelled two concerts because of you and much more.
OH, much, much, much, MORE. That is a poem on its own account.
 
Wait, test results are in. Cerebral, sterile, stark.
Most of all, potent!
Paper, you are though in reality.
The INK is simply too black.
And RED. Today, tomorrow. the next.
 
Each phrase careful, only to be more careful,
each number with its specific meaning and power,
power over every aspect of my day.
None of it fits though - does it nurse? She has compassion at least.
YOU NEED as Specialist in an area they do not exist. Oh Dear. I speak.
I want to scream aloud.
The DOC shows compassion my way, usually, on their good days.
Which of course helps this craze settle to less of a craze.
Ahhh though, here we go again. OHHHH. OHHHH. And OHHHH.
This should be a song. The song of Meg with a sore leg. The song of Meg with her bad head. The song of Meg with a sore toe, The song of Meg with all but woe.
 
Parameters, definitions, distinctions, guidelines, rules. They keep popping up.
This millimetre, this fat sparing, this blockage, this cell, this adhesion. This bile.
This blood, this heme iron, this transfusion, this infusion, this suture, this calcium score, this d-dimer is too high.
 
This, this, that. this sodium, this potassium, this gas, this acid base, this pulmonary nodule, this heartbeat, this ECG, this ECHO, this lack of oxygen, this gene. OH, and that gene too.
 
This b12, this lack of paper and ink, this DARK INK, and feelings, and too many feelings, and oh this history, this mental illness - is it real or not? Should we see? Who is she? What is her background, is she of wealth, is she poor, is she smart or a nark? Who is her family? Who is she berating us to on her phone? Let us see please. Who is this fine mess? It is ok, I am just me, just do not tick me off today because I can be scathing. Just like you. But I am in PAIN, so watch it. And I am at SEVEN.
 
And there is more, this overload, this foul bowel.
This stuck food, this piece of me,
this gastric issue, this reflux, this migraine, this tissue,
this medicine with its side effects, or advantageous effects,
this blood pressure, is up, is down, is around,
this oxygen level, this low temperature. This high one. This in between state.
This sickness, this malady, this illness, this condition, this fake, this real, this ordeal.
This infection, this antibiotic, this fungal killer, this wart medicine, this anti-acid, this cutterage, this biopsy, this burning of skin, this mole, this growth, this enema, this cream, this drawer full of creams. The pharmacy in my bathroom looks strange.
These asthma meds, these Band-Aids, these antiseptics, these antihistamines, these Panadol, these Maxalon, this ibuprofen, these vitamins, these burn creams. These skin barrier lotions, this chemo cream, this laxative, these fibre drinks, these liver tabs, these migraine patches, this heel balm and b12 injection ampoules. These pads, these Movicol sachets, these sedatives – this POUTPOURRI!
This pain medicine, this CBD oil, this opioid like stuff, or that, this nutritional deficiency, this dark place, these necessary tests - on no end roads. On paper trails. You INK take away my holidays. You INK are both saviour and persecutor. You INK are the western world with its joys and sorrows. You bring me thankfulness and you bring me sorrow.
 
So dear INK I am no apologist today for my nasty letters at times, my poems, my questioning my anger, my disappointment, my depression, my sadness, my relief, my grief. It felt good to speak up, and I warn you and I warn you again. Do not mess with this agony bag. Accept and help her. This, that, that, and this. Oh, and this and there is more.
 
So how do we heal, with ink all around - with black INK?
She is not one problem, she is COMPLEX. She is a true Zebra black n white striped. And paper sheets and paper skin, resting on her paper bed. Her wayward cells, and bones, blood, and tissues speak as they do.
 
Mystery Ink. You are a shape shifter - you are.
But do not you dare shift the blame to me, dear INK,
For this paper thin, skin. Is what it is, and it is NOT yours.
 
And dearest symptoms why must you stay and then hide. And then scream loud.
I am sensitive to noise. You want to be heard and I hear you. I hate you and I love you, but I still wish you would find a place of your own. Where you really belong.
 
Prying eyes, blind eyes, action plans, non-actions, withering, chronic disease management plans, hydrotherapy, physiotherapy, specialist appts. Wheelchairs, and mobility aids.
Break-through pain. OHHHHH ohhh OHHHHH ohhh OHHHHH.
Say it, say it, speak. I resent your INK, I do, I do.
Pain suffering, illness, bleakness, inertia, cruel joke, funny guy!
Good-bye sophisticated life. You did get close.
I will not be nice today, I will not be helpful, be accommodating.
Okay. Okay. Okay.
 
Our cells are great little workers and then they are not.
Some of them live in complete darkness and
Do plan to take over the HOST, which is you. Beware ok.
 
I am well fed up with paper and ink.
Thoughts views, sayings, all words, all descriptions,
Opinions.
Let my creased paper body, and my creased paper bed.
Go back to its suffering, it does it well.
Be testament to my human spirit, pure as it can be.
 
Laugh bone and cackle too,
Do it louder for all to see,
Why don’t you?
Stay abusive Nerve, you will anyways do as you wish.
Or keep sleepy, slow, and lethargic.
Nervous rigid muscle, keep on keeping, tighten your reins.
Brain, oh ball and chain,
vice-on-my-head – your thoughts did this.
My vice – listening and caring for you all – too much.


It is easier to cave into it all. And that I have learnt
Brings me to a five instead of a seven, through gritted teeth though.
 
Oh, dam you PAIN. Really the next life will be easier.
That is certain. God has promised me.
 
Oh Medicine, INK, Oh Malicious World,
You are here and you are amoebic,
You crawl, slither, froth, and bite,
At this crossroad whereby vitality, peace and other,
ran for the green safe hills.
To a stronger paper-bark shelter. Indigenous and safe.
 
Navigate me out, it is not too hard, will you?
I am a good person. Despite how I sound on here.
Of wretched love hate dysphoria. Yes, DOC, you have it too.
It is not only ME.
You are but human. And I am at times not.
Medicine. Inc.
INK.
Bless you, you too pain.

Like birdseed, a sequinned
gown,
 
They would glitter them into the crowd each year around Christmas time.
 
 It was your smear- fingered -smile
 Little treat. We curled our tiny bodies into the ruby- lip
 slippered red
 of those opulent seats, sat tight as a bow. We savoured the buttons up…
 
Hush,
now let us
begin.
 
Slam
      
        Searing
 
 Black.
 
That gunshot
 spike
crack was the very worst sound of my life. I wanted to shred
shed 
 
wolf
peel
at my skin. Wings
battling uselessly into the wax of
lights.
 
You're a hunted animal. Fresh.
screams, fever, green
 gaping horror-mouthed memories
 bashing again and again and again and again at the walls.
 
Trapdoor.
Claw.
 
After a while, you know the hot scent
of desperation. It's the ugly, stubborn snarl of curled fag smoke.
 
If you want a light, you always, always, always have to ask them, even though you can hear them: their
crabapple
laughs
crackle,
 
vines
 choke at your ankles
 along the whole sterile length
 of the aisle.
 
Snare, trap, flare.
You're cored.
 
You can no longer bear the sight of them. You shrivel in the corner and lick at
your wounds.
 
Fawn and
Freeze.
 
Retreat, curl up and
Dry.
 
Eventually,
you don't even recognise
 your own white face. You are definitely not today
 
The fairest, fairest…
 
Each nightfall, animated eyes
 blare in this hunter's wood. They watch, watch, watch
Watch. Your hair witches with time.
You hold out your finger not for a ring, but for yet another bite
 
of heat and blood;
  Your body spread out on a slab.
 
 Be good
 
or they won't let you out…
 
Gasp down
 
 til you bloat
  leak
 and weep
     like a frog.
 
It's not real, it's not real. It's not real…
 
Now
 you're encased
into tall ivied
walls. What you know
 is that they long to return the lush butchered prize
of your heart.
 
who even is the villain
Anymore?
 
One night,
someone pads. tears at the plastic with fangs-
and there's that familiar sweet purple glint once more.
It's winking at you:
 royal
like a cloak.