Feminist Literary Collective


I try to give him a heart
and he says, “Oh,
I’m just a straight white man
you don’t want me
in your literary collective.”

and I try to explain
everything that’s wrong with this
that it’s not a female,
trans, queer or black
collective even,
that it’s human to be feminist

but then I just say
“Ok, give me back my heart, then.”

I’m Confused

An essay about being disliked by everyone, and also being a pretty fucked up, flawed character. This is hilarious and will make you feel better about yourself. (Also, despite what I just said, Rob’s good people)

Just Ruminating



So the consensus is in:  I am antisocial, am not integrating well into the community, and I am causing a lot of tension within my Treatment Program Community.  In four words:  They Don’t Like Me.  And I mean this is the case with almost all of the 18 guys, sheesh.  The 75 year old in his 60th Program is exempt.  This, after I met with my “treatment” team.  Super…

There is a bi-weekly meeting of the “treatment” team.  In it there is a Psychologist, Group Leader, Psychiatrist, and the Program Director.  And they really want to help.  I met with them today.  As a result of the incident I described earlier, apparently I have exceptionally poor interpersonal relationship skills.  And don’t you know?  I exhibited some of them throughout my “treatment” meeting.

Fuck, and here I was thinking I just wasn’t…

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Constant Constantine-Introducing Hannah Munroe


[Poem by Hannah Munroe, image from Medea, directed by Michael Thalheimerv]

He roars he barks he bites
Little boys trying to be men
Emotions so big
they only know how to express it
with their fist
Stomp their feet in a fancy suit
And turns to look back, did she like that?
He is constant
Constantly there incessantly follows
obsessively claims me
and the ground I walk upon
I just can’t meet you in the middle
I don’t want to be owned
I don’t want to be yours
Remember that song by Lesley Gore?
I am only mine
And now a refugee too
Landed on another man’s doorstep
Now I’m caught between two men
It’s a nightmare really
How can I express myself
There must be more to this life
than a veil and pure white and flowers
Couldn’t a sister be enough?
But he is constantly there

[Hannah lives in Salem, Massachusetts. She is a writer, performer, dreamer, and lover of all things Stevie Nicks. She writes to heal, she writes to breathe, she writes to awaken. Hannah tries to do six impossible things before breakfast. She thinks there is a little witch in all of us.]




1). A glass of milk sits on the table, untouched. Nobody wants to be the first to claim it, though everyone is thirsty. The milk is a big deal, but no one can explain why.

2). The young woman walks down the street a couple of blocks from her home, clutching books to her chest. A carload of men drives by and honks. She is ashamed of herself, even though they are the ones who are behaving like louts. She keeps her eyes on the road ahead of her, but she knows they’ll just drive around the block and return. Next time, they’ll be more insistent.

3). I always thought the whole concept of virginity was devoted to penis-worship. If you never had a penis inserted in your vagina, you were a virgin, even if you’d had orgasms from oral sex, even if someone had inserted his finger in there numerous times, even if you had rubbed against someone so hard that your entire body convulsed. But stick a penis in a vagina, suddenly it was a major deal.

4). The man moves towards the woman. She opens instantly. It’s one of those rare moments when both people want the same thing, and aren’t afraid to show it. Then they both wake up.

5). I have a dream in which I am a virgin again. I decide I don’t need sex to be happy, and that I will go through life as an artist who lives alone. My only contact with men will be through postal letters. I will have an endless parade of postal lovers, who will regale me with propositions that I will never accept, and this will secretly be a relief for them. I keep the letters in a box in the closet. The box swells until it finally bursts open at the seams.

6). A man went searching in the forest for his virginity. It had been eaten by animals a long time beforehand. One of the lions told him it was delicious. The man smiled, since he had been unaware of this.

7). I didn’t lose my virginity. I gave it up voluntarily, and I don’t want it back. If you try to return it to me, not only will there not be a reward, but I’ll never speak to you again. Go find someone else’s virginity. They’ve either been searching for it since they were born, or they never lost it in the first place.

[Leah Mueller is an independent writer from Tacoma, Washington. She is the author of one chapbook, “Queen of Dorksville”, and two full-length books, “Allergic to Everything” and “The Underside of the Snake.” Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Blunderbuss, Memoryhouse, Outlook Springs, Atticus Review, Sadie Girl Press, Origins Journal, Silver Birch Press, Cultured Vultures, Quail Bell, and many others. She was a featured poet at the 2015 New York Poetry Festival, and a runner-up in the 2012 Wergle Flomp Humor Poetry contest.]

I Have To Try

This is Rob. Rob got fucked by the system. Help Rob (please).

Just Ruminating

I debated for many days as to whether or not I should reach out for help.  I really don’t have a choice, for I don’t have any real options.  So, dear readers, I hope that you will take no offense to my request for your lovingkindness and donations to help me to save money for housing needs.

I’ve heard too many nightmares about Veterans making it through treatment just to end up on the streets after their discharge.  I am so afraid of falling on my face.  I don’t really have any viable options when my treatment ends in March.  So, I decided to take action in the hopes that some of you might have understanding and grace, and perhaps the ability to help out.

Whatever any of you can do, if anything at all, I will be most eternally grateful.  And believe me, my self-esteem is at an all…

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Bad Habits-Introducing Nadia Garofalo


Bad habits [poem and photo by Nadia Garofalo]

Every damn time
over and over
a madman masochist
to the familiar
the comfortable

That which doesn’t serve
wastes me
keeps me afraid
to lose more
there is freedom in loss
isn’t there

Pushing for more
sucking the dry bottom
of a cup long empty
when the water flows sweetly
so near to me

I fear the cold
current that beats
sharp rocks against my feet
I’ve always been a swimmer
I was born in this water
carry it to dry lips
while I remain

[Nadia is an artist/ musician living in Chicago, originally from western MA. Currently she works as a freelancer doing props for TV and film. When not working she is an active member of the Chicago music community as well as a founding member of the post-punk band Ganser. She is very excited to be a contributing member of Whisper and the Roar.]