SCARS By Amanda M. Wertz


This poem is dedicated any person that has tried to hide their pain in one way or another. Just remember, no matter what they tell you, you are not alone.

So much anger
So much hurt
Bottled up from my past.
Used to cut myself to relieve my pain
Now I pray.
At times I don’t know what to say
Just depends on the day.
Waking up each morning
Just to see the scars on my body.
Each one tells a story.
I tried to hide my scars from others
but an angel in prison kissed them.
She told me I have a new life to begin
A life of happiness, joy and peace.
A new life for both my family and myself.
While the scars are still there
I have a story to share
to help someone else.
Out with the old in with the new.
God wins.

By Amanda M. Wertz


Survivor of lots of shit and published poet

Lancaster, Pa.

the church finds out about the boy who killed himself By sarah kate osborn

the church finds out about the boy who killed himself

aren’t you grateful we aren’t in
That Kind of Environment?
she says when the boy down the road is found
swinging from a noose on a sunday afternoon.
i hear aren’t you glad we aren’t Like That?
i hear you don’t belong here if you think That Way.
i hear that boy’s going right to hell.
at least we’re still holy.

it has been three days and
he is an example before his ghost has even left the room.
shame is shed before condolences.
people are whispering
it’s a good thing that doesn’t happen here.

i am getting tired of god bless you and
sympathetic stares from chicken and biscuit women.
what a waste of God’s creation.
they seem to say he had potential
but i wonder if they mean God wasted His time.

the congregation cries amen!
when the pastor tells them
God says to love everything He made.
i wonder if they know that God meant it.

if you’re going to love the lord,
love his people too.

By sarah kate osborn


sarah kate osborn is an amateur poet from north carolina who hates describing herself and rebels against capital letters. she is trying to toss her voice into a world already filled with noise and may have nothing meaningful to say. she has been published or is soon to be published in the rising phoenix review, words dance magazine, and persephone’s daughters. she can be found at

Ode to the Dead Girl (Surviving An Eating Disorder in Eight Parts) By Lindsey H.

Ode to the Dead Girl (Surviving An Eating Disorder in Eight Parts)

After Blythe Baird’s “When the Fat Girl Gets Skinny
It was the year
you didn’t eat your grandmother’s christmas candy
and searched your sister’s bedroom
for diet pills
instead of vodka,
the year of smoking cigarettes in the kitchen
because besides your body,
it was the only place
you ever wanted to burn.

Here’s to the year of birthday cake
flushed down the toilet.
Here’s to apologizing to your mother
for leaving your dinner
on the stove.
(Here’s to thanking her
for acting like
she didn’t know.)

It was the year you counted ribs
like some girls count sheep,
dreamt about never waking up
on the nights your bruised body
let you sleep.

Here’s to the year you broke
every mirror in the house.
Remember how good that felt —
to not be seen,
to finally have turned yourself
into a ghost.
They say people only care
when you’re pretty
or dying
but what happens
when you are

You practice fitting in your coffin
by shrinking yourself down
and you wonder how many
calories you’d burn
by running to the nearest bridge
and jumping,
counting how long it’d
take to drown.

You think, sick girl.
You think, I could
get used to this.
And you do.
Think, sorry.
To my knuckles,
to my stomach,
to my body.

Say sorry to your heart
that feels like it’s shrunk,
for telling yourself
too little
is too much,
for the calculator
in your head
that never shuts off,
for taking 18 years too long
to learn to love the things
you are.

So here’s to the year of
forgiving the girl that
you were.

Here’s to the year
of burying her.

By Lindsey H.


Lindsey H is an 18 year old New York girl that doesn’t write, but survives.

NUCLEAR WINTER By Sophia Anderson


we were raised by the desperate sound
of the dead singing songs to the lonely.
running around snow covered streets
all aglow.
take what’s left of your youth
set it on fire.

the fractured unbelief of a hollow body
lying to the world beneath a sky that has shattered itself whole.
in this world that is tired of drowning alone
all monsters are innocent ruins.
so take your burning body
throw it off the balcony.

cinematic empathy playing devil’s advocate to the masses
while my little sister shivers on the fire escape
and weeps for all we won’t become.
so my darling, my winter starved wolf
take a knife to your longing
swallow it whole.

By Sophia Anderson


Sophia Anderson is a high school poet living on the west coast of Canada. She is 16 years old, an avid reader and in love with the sea and the stars. She draws inspiration from personal experience, dreams and her surroundings. She can be found at where she posts the majority of her written works.

To the Introverts By Cosette Luella

To the Introverts

We inscribe discorded heart beats
to a mis-stepping metronome,
tongues; a foreign obscurity.

Intimate moments are shared with the ground,
eyes tracing pavement cracks
to find an exit on the lined map.

Nails hidden in clutching hands
cloaking the war-like bitten scene,
a conflict unwelcome to constant observers.
Our jumpers camouflage us;
a colour palette picked to fit the background.

Armed with phones we prepare to hide,
defense methods against idle chatter.
Screens replacing the urban terrain
like nocturnal beasts we smother the shadows.

We step cautiously to avoid
the land mines of familiar faces,
walking a silent path we avoid whispers;
murmurs which sew the seeds of fear.

We remain drunk on pessimism
and see their lips usher our names,
strangers, assassins with a single stare.
Our lips are plastered in an emotionless disguise.

Never to draw attention from the endless jury.
Never to trespass on extrovert land.

By Cosette Luella


My pen name is Cosette Luella and I have a blog here:
As well as writing short fiction stories and poetry, I enjoy activities such as designing and editing, drawing and photography. I also enjoy collecting notebooks and paintings which act as decoration for my workspace, providing visual inspiration.

Your Personal Mythology By Bela Sánchez

Your Personal Mythology

when i was eight, i bet my older sister twelve dollars
(otherwise known, at that moment in my existence,
as my entire life savings)
that god was a woman.

any member of an abrahamic religion
will know the way this story ends.
that was the day i lost my entire life savings.

and thank god,
for god the father
and for god the son
and for god the holy spirit.
honestly, thank god for all three of ‘em.
and it’s not like i’m trying to start a theological debate.

but like, my god
is the prettiest lady you’ve ever seen.
she’s got the kind of skin that’s seen things.
it’s weathered and brown and crinkles around the eyes.
and it’s soft to the touch.

i mean, my god
has the longest hair,
thick and silvery and always tied into a braid.
she weaves wildflowers at the crown of her head,
the kind that don’t have names.

my god
cried when her son was born of flesh,
and screamed when he was hung on that cross.
she thought her heart was going to explode
straight out of her chest.

my god
is the kind of mom
who bakes chocolate chip cookies
for everyone in the class
and knows each kid’s allergy
without even asking.

my god
is an artist
and a doctor
and an environmentalist
and she saves the day, everyday.

my god
has the prettiest hands.
has the warmest eyes.
gives the greatest hugs.
loves each and everyone of us.

so i still go to church.
but i’m not praying to any fathers.
that’s god the mother up there,
and i’m reciting the our mother
every damn sunday.
she’ll forgive us our trespasses
and invite us back for thanksgiving.

there’s plenty to spare.

By Bela Sánchez


bela is a sixteen-year-old girl who feels passionately about tenderness and softening her edges. she attends a high school where talented and gifted students cheat on their homework and set things on fire, and has recently taught herself how to be a sunflower. she lives in dallas, texas with two dogs, a large family, and as many friends as she can dream up. she is always eating too much arroz con leche.

From The Mouths Of The Bees By Emma Bleker

From The Mouths Of The Bees

She has honeycomb body, like
sweetness and
effort gone into making her whole.
The bees live there
in the rustle beneath her skin
they do not want to die
and she does not want to destroy
all their hard work
so neither falls:
nectar is harvested, a trophy of
time looks
sweet to taste,
looks like “see how long i have survived?”

Their potential to sting
does not scare her, anymore.

They are no longer afraid
of her great, open mouth
or the way she cries when she
is alone; like the tree is falling.
Like the ground has opened up
only she is the ground
and everything is split in half.

Her palms stick with the dew
of candied labors,
with the early morning sunlight
caught between her fingers,

and she is warned.

Sometimes, the bees tell her,
things that are sweet like this
attract the worst kind of hungry.

Sometimes, our fingers get stuck
when we do not mean
for them to

By Emma Bleker


Emma Bleker is a 20 year old writer working for her English degree while attempting to live a true and convincing life. She has been published, or is forthcoming, in Electric Cereal, Cahoodaloodaling, Persephone’s Daughters, Skylark Review, and Yellow Chair Review. Additionally, she released her first collection of poetry, Here’s Hoping You Never See This, in November of 2015.