We Will Not Be Silenced Launch Event II

Blood Into Ink


Join us for our second launch event on Facebook!

December 7 at 7pm-10pm

The editors and contributors are concluding a week of events in honor of the publication of We Will Not Be Silenced: The Lived Experience of Sexual Harassment and Sexual Assault Told Powerfully Through Poetry, Prose, Essay, and Art. Our live events are a great opportunity to learn more about the book’s origin, purpose, and contributors and get some sneak peeks of the powerful content.


We Will Not Be Silenced: The Lived Experience of Sexual Harassment and Sexual Assault Told Powerfully Through Poetry, Prose, Essay, and Art is the brainchild of Kindra M. Austin, Candice Louisa Daquin, Rachel Finch, and Christine E. Ray. The four indie writers and survivors felt compelled to do something after the strongly triggering Kavanaugh Hearings. We decided that we would advocate, educate, and resist through our art.
We opened submissions for…

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Surviving the Void – A Tribute to the Healing of the Womb

I love Dena. ❤

Phoenix Ascended

I love every aspect of my life and those I share it with, let’s get that straight, but there is still a gut-wrenching ache in the depths of my soul and it just won’t seem to loosen its grip on me. Although every other chamber of my heart is overflowing with love, there is still a chasmic black hole in my heart that all the stars in the universe could not fill. It should be infused with light through self-love, the love reciprocated by those I care for and inner-peace and happiness, yet for some reason I cannot seem to tame the envious beast lurking within. Perhaps because, like most childless women who yearn to cradle precious life within them, I come face to face on a daily basis with subtle reminders of the one ability I lack – in every family photo taken, every school bus stop, playground, grocery…

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I Knew My Faults-Sarah Doughty

“I knew my faults.
And they always stared

back at me in the mirror.”

As long as I can remember, I knew my faults. They were engraved in my flesh, repeated so often that even I saw nothing else. I knew every one. Believed every one. I was every one.
I knew my faults when I was toddling around, learning how to speak, how to walk, how to cower.
I knew my faults when I began school. How I wasn’t smart enough, not social enough. How I was a target in school. And at night.
I knew my faults in the dark. I learned my best to do what was required of me, but I was never quite good enough. I knew what my hands needed to do, how my lips should stay soft, or how my hips were supposed to move with the right timing. After awhile, I knew those moves just enough to get by.

I knew my faults. And they always stared back at me in the mirror.

© Sarah Doughty

I Knew My Purpose-Rachel Finch

I knew my purpose
when little legs were
thrust apart,
foreign hands moulding my body
into a better fit for themselves,
shaping my form and my future.
I knew my purpose when they
took their turns and the skin on
my face didn’t burn beneath the salt,
but soaked it into every pore with a
I knew my purpose when the
bruises painted my inner thighs
and even my silent lips couldn’t
hide the gospel.
I knew my purpose when the tears fell and
only the birds were listening.
Shades of hurt patterned my flesh and I was
already living in the knowing.
I would grow wings and beat them to the
sound of every whimper of a sister
and I would turn the betrayal into a war cry
for peace and justice

I Knew My Worth (originally published on Blood Into Ink)- Kindra M. Austin

I knew my worth when I was hot as fuck and
boys all lined up to
pet my cleft at the blind side of the playground—
dirty fingers
mercifully uneducated in the intricacies of
female anatomy

I knew my worth when I was hot as fuck in
middle school, despite my flat chest and
highly guarded cleft—
face of Helen and an ass that wouldn’t quit,
by the gods, I knew my worth

I knew my worth when I was hot as fuck and
high school boys poorly educated in the delicacies of
female anatomy
petted my cleft with excavating fingers—
I sang hymns for my molested hymen

I knew my worth when I gave birth
two weeks before graduation, and I was in love;
my sweet babe, my savior—
she taught me the truth of my worth

I Knew My Fate-1Wise Woman

I knew my fate when
Enraged voices penetrate
Eyes closed tight
Dreaming of locks
Picked and set free
I knew my fate when
Words embedded
Forever me
Followed by scenes
Seen and unseen
I knew my fate when
Heart carried weight
Day and night
Searching for savior
Bury the burden
I knew my fate when
Reflection revealed
Strength intrinsic
An open door
Running no more


Wooden Spoon-Una Zingara (Sabrina Escorio)

We didn’t have to ask
The memories told themselves
Over tiramisu and espresso
While the smoke lingered
Off Nonna’s birthday candles
And Zia’s stale cigarette
That sat perched on her lips
Appearing glued in place
Their story rolled out like fog
Clouding vision
Just enough
To disguise their tears
As they reminisced
And we listened to bay city rollers
Huddled beneath a tiny radio
That balanced on the windowsill
The metronomic hum and thud
of the clothing dryer in the kitchen
Set the pulse of their conversation.

They kissed loved ones goodbye
Wearing clothes made of fabric
They could not afford
It was the sixties
Where damp cheek kisses
Replaced words of apprehension
Fear wrapped delicately
Within fantasy once fed forcefully
By the wooden spoon of heritage
Then regurgitated over Atlantic waves
Their stomachs emptied
That no dream could fill
Lost somewhere between
The warm Genoa sky
And a cold rocky
Dartmouth crest
A two week hollowing of sorts
This pilgrimage set forth
Within the belly of their dream
That roared and ached until satisfied
Left to carve faith from their bones
Then use it as a buoyant reverie
Preserving life
Securing hope
Refining their dream


© Sabrina Escorcio
April 2018

Heritage series

Photo credit to Alfred Eisenstaedt

Sabrina was born to Italian Catholic immigrant parents in the beautiful Niagara region in Ontario, Canada. Surrounded by nature and raised on a self-sustaining farm, nature and faith are two predominant themes often appearing in her work. She grew up with a love for nature, the dramatic arts, music, as well as books and literature. After years of journaling Sabrina came to know poetry, as an adult this became an avenue of self-expression during a time of personal strife. This hunger for poetry was insatiable, leading her to scour second hand book stores for more inspiration. There she found classic authors such as Percy Shelley, Tennyson, and Sylvia Plath, as well as many obscure poets; She began to transform her journaling into the realm of confessional poetry. One of her favourite pieces is titled “Dark Pines Under Water” written by the Canadian poet Gwendolyn Mac Ewen. Sabrina hopes to feature her poetry in print one day, she can also be found on Tumblr as “una-zingara”.



The men of this forest aren’t ashamed of comparing themselves to flies that feed on every piece of sugar they find; They said I was sugar, so is now the time to lose my nectar, and lose my flowers.

I replaced the lilies on my head with pepper sprayed roses, for now, I don’t even care if I go bald. For now, they found sugar in a three year old flower.

Last time, they stroked at iron rod into a woman working for a cause and a respectable old man laughed, “boys’ mistakes aren’t crimes.”

No crime, on the blood of my sisters they dine.

Shall I look down upon my gender, or I cry over the plight of my women losing their family after losing their honour.

Honour, stroked into their vagina like a rod.

A rod, to be pulled out everytime a woman gains power.

A rod, to hit her in the head and ask, “where’s your honour?”

A rod will be your pill to swallow, filthy men.

My honour lies naked, unashamed, unbent, proud, erect, in my eyes;


(image: Ancient Pages)


I gave myself this title a short time ago.

I have always felt it in me; I am meant to cleanse the world of its neck-gripping flaws that suppress women.

Mahish.asur-mar.dini – it’s a sanskrit word that means ‘killer of monsters’.

I hope to kill them in my poems.

I hope to kill the monsters in the minds of people.

I am change; I am breaking every glass ceiling I see. I will make this world better.

You can also check out my work on Instagram : @nidhie_saini


Violence Domesticated



domesticated Woman.

Pot Roast Sundays

tasted better


with broken ribs.


He loved her hair so much that he’d take greedy handfuls.

I still see her, slumped over the stove, cooking Sunday dinner,

bruised, and bleeding into boiling pots.

Split lips were all that wept in front of him. She saved her tears for me.



domesticated Woman.

Sex was best when

she begged for life

at noon

when the kids were awake and watching cartoons.


Only we weren’t paying attention to the television—

we were holding each other, and swearing to each other

that everything would be all right as long as we stuck together.


And we grew up,

perfectly groomed for marriage.   



domesticated Woman.


© Kindra M. Austin

(image: Hitek)

A Ball Is for Throwing-Adrienne Rich


See it, the beautiful ball

Poised in the toyshop window,

Rounder than sun or moon.

Is it red? is it blue? is it violet?

It is everything we desire,

And it does not exist at all.


Non-existent and beautiful? Quite.

In the rounding leap of our hands,

In the longing hush of air,

We know what that ball could be,

How its blues and reds could spin

To a headier violet.


Beautiful in the mind,

Like a word we are waiting to hear,

That ball is construed, but lives

Only in flash of flight,

From the instant of release

To the catch in another’s hand.


And the toy withheld is a token

Of all who refrain from play–

The shopkeepers, the collectors

Like Queen Victoria,

in whose adorable doll’s house

Nothing was ever broken.


©Adrienne Rich

Published in August, 1957