Call For Submissions: This is What Love Looks Like. Poetry By Women Smitten with Women

Indie Blu(e) Publishing is currently accepting submissions of poetry and art for This is What Love Looks Like. Poetry by Women Smitten with Women. This Anthology will celebrate love, attachments, and attraction between women.

  • The maximum number of pieces for submission per writer/artist is FIVE (5).
  • Writing can be uploaded as a Word or PDF attachment. If you are submitting a graphic poetry meme, the meme must be accompanied by the text in Word or PDF version.
  • Artwork submitted for the Anthology must be able to be reproduced clearly in black and white.
  • You will be notified if your work is accepted. Please do not consider non- acceptance as any diminishment of your experience, but as with any publishing venture, we must try to fit the individual pieces together into a strong whole.
  • Submission of previously published pieces is acceptable if you still own the rights to your work.
  • Submissions will be accepted through June 30, 2019 through Submittable. There is no charge for submission.

This is a project fueled by passion, not profit. Indie Blu(e) Publishing will only charge a few dollars above the publishing cost to keep the Anthology as affordable as possible.

All contributors will receive a PDF copy of the book.

Questions? Contact Candice at candicedaquin@gmail.com.

There Is Strength in Our Stories: I Will Rise – Layla Summers

I can still feel his hands on me
Grabbing too roughly
Holding too tightly
Leaving a lingering sting
Long after the slap on the face

I can still hear his begging
The pure disappointment
No -that’s too kind a word-
The disguised fury
When I said no to sex

I can still feel it
How he decided to fuck me anyway
How he kissed me
Making me gag on his tongue
How he’d bite my neck
How he’d do anything
Until I gave up

I can still feel it
His jaws clenched way too tight
On my breasts

I can still hear him
Sounding so pleased
So thrilled with himself

He was my first true
“Relationship”
And yet I was his prisoner
His plaything

I vividly remember the last time
I remember the rage in his eyes
Because I didn’t want to have sex
5 days before my birthday,
The anniversary of the first time I was raped
At twelve years old,
But he didn’t care
And he fucked me anyway
Because I’d “been doing fine”

What he doesn’t know
Is I am a Phoenix
And I will rise from the ashes
Of my broken self


I am a poet, author, and playwright. I have been writing for almost seven years as a way to cope with my traumas and bipolar disorder. Now I use my writing to show others they are not alone. My writing can be found on Wattpad under HealingTatteredWings. By overcoming the past, we can do more than survive. We can all thrive together. My heart goes out to all those who need someone there for them.

Sudden Denouement Seeking Submissions for New Writers

Sudden Denouement Literary Collective

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Sudden Denouement started a little over three years ago with a vision of creating a platform for divergent voices. We have grown tremendously and have been gifted with amazing talent from around the world. We are now soliciting submissions for new writers. If you are interested, please send a sample of your work, along with a short bio. We are interested in those who write poetry, short fiction, or any form that lends itself to the format.

If interested please send submissions to:

suddendenouement@gmail.com

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til Death – by HLR

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1. It looked like the scene of a crime and I suppose it was:
manufactured by a fucked-up mentality and fuelled by pity,
it was a crime against sanity, a crime of stupidity,
and now I’m gonna have to serve my time until one of us dies.

2. I’m stuck to you with claret glue but you are bad bad bad news.
I’m bad news too but you think I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you.
That’s just one of the reasons why it was a fucking stupid thing to do.

3. Your dark red dabs remain underneath the fresh magnolia paint and I had to throw your jumper and my t-shirt away. It was a good idea at the time: the unification of two bedlamites, the formation of an everlasting alliance between the perpetually misunderstood, but the knife in the drawer and the scar across my palm reminds me that you do me far more harm than good. Blood smeared on our faces like war-paint and Eminem elected as our patron saint, how we laughed and thought we’d finally found our place in the world: together, against it.

4. “Dream Team, baby.” “Nightmare Pair, baby.”

5. Now that we are family, bound by loyalty, I can’t get rid of you. Well, I can. We always said we’d go out on the blades of glory and this is definitely gonna end badly. You think you’re Sid but, trust me, it’s more likely that you’ll end up like Nancy. Ah, God: it would be way too easy.

6. The problem with a blood pact
is that you can’t take it back:
you’ve got me as a friend
’til the bitter, twisted end.

HLR is a 20-something writer of creative non-fiction, mainly short prose and poetry. She writes about challenging subjects such as mental illness, addiction, suicide and grief with an injection of sardonic British droll—a style acquired through years of mental angst and too much time spent in the pub. Perpetually on the verge of either a breakdown or a breakthrough (sometimes both) HLR was born and raised in north London, and is yet to escape. A list of previous publications can be found here.

Find more of HLR’s fabulous and powerful writing here on her webpage and with the writing collective Hijacked Amygdala  here

We, The Broken – Aurora Phoenix

come play, poetic friend
the full moon waxes
idyllic on the starless night

glimmering invite reflects
stark fear from the silvery scar
of my ever-unprotected flank

breathless, transfixed
I rummage among
my branded entrails

forage for rose-colored glasses
to gaze upon
luna’s beatific face
 
find them bloodied
from werewolves’
prior bites

moonbeams’ harmonic strains
drag piercing fingernails
across the chalkboard
of my angst

we, the broken
long to frolic carefree
in cool-limned incandescence

hang frozen

in shattered indecision
having forgotten
what it’s like
to be whole

Inspired by Jessica Nodarse, Eric Syrdal and Megha Sood

We, the broken – Eric Syrdal

shipwreck

Hundreds of gallons
Of water
Rumble and crush against
My feet
Standing here
I feel the sands
Pulling at my skin
Downwards
Ever downwards
To drown the light
Behind the shadows
Of a ribcage split wide
Upon this shattered shore
She took the white froth abeam!
Rolled against the rocks
As I gulped down the brine
my hands grasping for nothing
And filled with so much nothing, they clung
For dear life
To the flotsam
Of this derelict existence
As crawling upon blooded knees
I made my way to this spot
And with heaving gasps of sanguine pride
I look out upon that raging sea
We the broken
We are parts searching for a wholeness
unremembered

We, the broken- Megha Sood

 

Dreams crushed and pulverized to the core
I walk alone on this path
broken and sore;
this emptiness seeps
loneliness sits neatly in my pores
Silence screams the loudest
at its core;
a flag stripped of its mast
I’m trying to gather the pieces of me
splintered and stuck in
hundreds of soul
faces– known to me
faces I ignore;
I unpluck and unclutch parts of me
lodged in all the bleary hearts
I once loved
to whom I bared my soul;
We, the broken
like a lost piece of the puzzle
always searching
always alone.

–Megha Sood

Inspired by Eric Syrdal and Jessica Nodarse