Trigger warning-Megha Sood

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Click clang!
Tick tock!
this poem is a trigger warning;
you better read it with the
valiant soul or else you
should just 
stop reading

The pain is too numbing
and too graphic for
your meek soul to bear;
it is only a snapshot of the pain
the tip of the ice burg
I’m  ready to bare

Oh, wait !!
don’t let your
feeble heart take all that pain;
Don’t show it to the kids
they won’t be able to retain

Click Clack!
Tick tock!
the scars slowly turns
into memories
make yourself brave to see;
for it will turn your
dreams into scary
nightmares
pretty easily

Tread carefully
and don’t you dare
look back;
you might see the ghouls
lingering in the doorways
ready for the attack

Your gentle kind-hearted soul
will be left
soaring with the pain
to see blisters simmering
in my soul
boiling again

Tread carefully
don’t falter
in my lifelines;
don’t accidentally
put your finger
on my trigger
and make them alive.

I blog at Megha’s World

Photo by Goh Rhy Yan on Unsplash

Annotations on a post-murder- Henna Sjöblom

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Welcome, dear Sirs.
Have a seat.
Today we’re gonna learn how to slaughter rabbits.
Cut along the dotted lines, where the flesh is the most tender. If needed, lift the skirt a bit, thereafter poke a hole in the stockings using a sharpened nail.

Rabbits are esteemed survivors. If you are swift, you can manage to snatch one just before it leaps into adulthood,
but be aware that the same rabbit might return
years later, standing in your doorway at 4am
covered in gasoline, bloodshot eyes and an AK-47 pointed at your skull
when you wake up,
gasping for air, and stumbling trough the balcony door
you may find them in the smoke of your cigarette, fondling down the inside of your throat,
or on the sticky pages of the adult magazines on the bedside table,
or in the hand that grabs and caresses you in the dark, while you lay naked
and itching,
caressing, pumping,
desperately aching to feel something,

When was your first time?
Who taught you?
Graceful rabbits, watch them go,
march in line towards the water’s edge
bleeding cotton candy and crying phosphor

We are the bloodied thighs
and empty beds
ripped off polyester ears
painkillers chugged down with absinthe
in the early morning
We are persistent.
If you cut trough our stomach, our hearts may sometimes go on beating
for 40,
maybe 60 years,
but always a little faster than before,
in painful awareness
knowing what it’s like to have life ripped out by your own hands
and never forgetting the sharp intrusion
steel to flesh,
and you,
do you blush
before swallowing
or do you just
consume?


The goth girl next-door. Aspiring author. Monstrophile. Horror enthusiast. I write to cope with mental illness and everyday experiences.  You can read more of my writing at Murder Tramp Birthday.

Uncomfortably Numb-Christine Ray

stop
Once upon a time
i was an innocent
girl-child
full of trust
day dreams
fairy wishes
like many
girl children
barbarian
invaders
tried to claim
my territory
as their own
i was young
helpless
powerless
but absorbed
the lesson
shame

i learned to live
outside
of the country
named body
retreated
to the
the land
called
dissociation
to protect
the integrity
the fragility
of self
grew thicker
skin
became
a chameleon
felt rage
simmer
in my belly

told over
and
over
again
that I existed
for other’s
entertainment
pleasure
called
bitch
dyke
ballbuster
tease
when
i insisted
that i would
set the terms
for
who
when
where
my body
would be shared

many years
later
i meet the foe
called
neuropathy
that drags
me
out of
dissociation
and solidly back
into body
whether
i want to
be there
or not
neuropathy
is excruciating
numbness
burning
radiating pain
i laugh
at the irony

Life With My Mother- Kindra M. Austin

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I love her to the point of madness, my mother, a paradox wrapped in sun-kissed paper flesh. To embrace her is to hold an armful of hollow bones; the shell of a woman short-lived. If only you could study the photographs of my childhood, or look through the lens of my mind’s eye, you would see a healthy petite brunette with a youthful face, immortal, storybook beautiful. Our physical similarities, by the way, begin and end with a square jawline. She’s five inches shorter than I, with a wider mouth, and magic eyes that are sometimes grey, green, or blue, or any combination of the three, which makes me totally “peanut butter and jealous.” And that smile of hers, fuuuhhh! 

She was raised a Jehovah’s Witness beginning at age five until she was disfellowshipped at sixteen. See, the Kingdom Hall Elders don’t play when it comes to girls being raped by a Brother. My grandfather wanted to involve the police in the matter, but my grandmother didn’t…because she’s a bitch. I could go into detail regarding the abuse my mother suffered at the hands of my grandparents (grandmother), but I won’t because it is too heartbreaking, and so wicked you’d wish you were reading fiction.

My mother met my father when she was a naive seventeen, and he was a high twenty-one; I was born two years later in December, 1978, and my sister followed in 1983. My parents divorced when I was eleven or twelve after years of brutal arguing and extramarital affairs. My mother couldn’t afford to keep our house, so she, and my little sister and I moved into a trailer park that could have been the white trash capital of America for all I knew. That’s when the regular heavy drinking began; honestly, I can’t believe it didn’t begin sooner.

We lived in the trailer park for two depressing years. It was fucking awful; my sister was infested with head lice all of the goddamned time, and I was always getting into fights with the neighborhood girls. My mother worked her ass off as a housekeeper at a nearby hotel for the first year so we wouldn’t have to live on food stamps for longer than what was necessary while she looked for other employment so we wouldn’t have to live in the trailer park for longer than what was necessary. Sometime during the second year, my mother began dating a hee-haw motherfucker, and by the summer preceding my freshman year of high school, we had all moved with him. We lived in his house but a few months before he began punching holes in walls, and hitting my mother regularly.

I always knew when a fight was coming. Hee-Haw and my mother would start drinking early at home, go out for a ride and stop at a few bars. They’d come in late, trashed and pissed off at each other. There were times when I thought he might kill her. My sister would always get too close, sobbing, screaming at him to leave her mommy alone! I would always try to keep her out of harm’s way, but it was difficult sometimes being that I was also caught up in the mix, hitting him with my fists or swinging at him with a cast iron frying pan. Once he grabbed my sister’s arm, and I jumped on him. He shook me off, grabbed me by the neck, and threatened to put my head through the t.v. screen if I ever came at him again. Of course, good old Hee-Haw was always sorry in the morning.

One of the many times my mother left Hee-Haw, my grandparents took us in…to their garage. Yeah, they put us up for nearly a whole summer. We slept on mattresses, cooked our food in a microwave and used a big plastic mixing bowl as a chamber pot. Praise Jehovah for loving family!

We moved out of that prick’s house for good when I was sixteen, after he had held a knife to my mother’s throat. To this day it brings me great joy to know that the last thing I ever said to him (while pointing the same knife into his Adam’s apple) was, “If you ever touch my mom again, I will kill you while you sleep.”

I left home at age eighteen, a few months after my daughter was born–she and I moved in with her dad (my future ex-husband). Leaving my sister behind remains one of the most difficult things I have ever had to do; I was the one raising her! Shit, I was the one who looked after my mother (the best a child could look after her alcoholic mother). Every time I recall the night I left my bawling sister, my stomach aches. I can still feel her hot wet cheeks pressed against my neck as I squeezed her body close to mine. And her voice: “Please take me with you, Sissy.” Fuck. I’m crying now.

My mother is what “they” call a functioning alcoholic. She has never been fired, reported to work drunk, or called in sick because she was hung-over. But the term functioning alcoholic boils my piss, if I’m being honest. What’s functioning about a mother who employs her thirteen year old daughter as her chauffeur because she herself is too wasted to drive? What’s functioning about a mother caught pissing on her bedroom carpet because she was so fucking blotto, she thought she was in the bathroom? Or gets pulled over for D.U.I. in her missing boyfriend’s car that happens to be storing guns and ammo in the trunk?  Or goes to the hospital belligerently drunk when her daughter is in labor?

My mother never hit me, or my sister. She never cussed at us. But there was (is) emotional abuse–manipulation is more accurate. I swear, she’s the smartest dummy I have ever known. And so charming. She’s the kind of woman who always has some fucking drooling moron looking to “save her.”

She loves us, my sister and I, more than anything on this earth (second to beer). She always went without the things she needed (except beer) so that my sister and I didn’t have to go without. To this day, my mother will give to her girls even if it breaks her. My mother will help anyone out who needs it. She is the most selfless of selfish people. So whenever she’s angry with me because I fail to validate her (I never lie to her) and decides to tell me to fuck off, or break something I had given to her, I try to remember that I am dealing with the woman I have called my best friend so many times in my life. The woman I can count on to defend my honor, and to cry with me when I’m hurting. The woman who is proud of me.

Yes, I love this woman to the point of madness–my mother, a self-contradicting alcoholic.


Kindra M. Austin is a member of Sudden Denouement, a curator at Blood into Ink, and a fiction indie author. You can read her poems and prose at https://poemsandparagraphs.wordpress.com/ and find her debut novel at Amazon.com  (Amazon UK).

Uncomfortably Numb-by Christine Ray

stop
[Another powerful poem by our powerhouse of a poet,Christine Ray!]

Once upon a time
i was an innocent
girl-child
full of trust
day dreams
fairy wishes
like many
girl children
barbarian
invaders
tried to claim
my territory
as their own
i was young
helpless
powerless
but absorbed
the lesson
shame
 
i learned to live
outside
of the country
named body
retreated
to the
the land
called
dissociation
to protect
the integrity
the fragility
of self
grew thicker
skin
became
a chameleon
felt rage
simmer
in my belly
 
told over
and
over
again
that I existed
for other’s
entertainment
pleasure
called
bitch
dyke
ballbuster
tease
when
i insisted
that i would
set the terms
for
who
when
where
my body
would be shared
 
many years
later
i meet the foe
called
neuropathy
that drags
me
out of
dissociation
and solidly back
into body
whether
i want to
be there
or not
neuropathy
is excruciating
numbness
burning
radiating pain
i laugh
at the irony