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

Girlhood – Kristiana Reed

she’s the tough girl. soft girl. doesn’t get involved girl. the too much girl. yet never enough girl. smile girl. what are you laughing at girl?

cry girl. middle of the dance floor girl. she’ll hold your hair girl.

she’s his girl. my girl. will always be the baby girl. daddy’s girl. shy girl. get them out for the lads girl.

she’s a show girl. not much of a grower girl. innocent girl. lost girl. missing girl. the nobody knows her anymore girl.

she’s the ‘you’ve changed’. learnt how to be brave. the woman you fail to recognise. because you do not use her proper name.


 

Kristiana Reed is a writer and an English Teacher living in the UK. She is the creator of My Screaming Twenties on WordPress and she is currently working on her debut poetry collection which will be released this Spring. Her work has been published in several poetry anthologies (Swear To Me, All The Lonely People, We Will Not Be Silenced), in the feminist issue of MAELSTROM Zine and the inaugural issue (flight) from Nightingale and Sparrow.

We, the broken – Jesica Nodarse

Im not sure I have the words to explain
Even my vast vocabulary fails me
I should be used to it
Ive been here many times before
We, the broken.. forget what its like to be whole 
So please bear with me
My compass has turned off
The sun rose from the West
And its rays emit an eeriely cold glow
Even the maps refuse to unfold
I’ll overcome
Time and again
Its all I’ve known
Somewhere along the line, the purpose will make itself known
Till then ..
I’ll be here
Nowhere at all

Jesica Nodarse
Artist unknown (Pinterest)

Shortlisted for a state level poetry contest- Please vote-“A Journey towards freedom”–Megha Sood

Dear blogging family,

I’m happy and excited to share the news that one of my poems got shortlisted

for “NAMI NJ Dara Axelrod Expressive Arts 2019 Mental Health Poetry Contest” among top 10 finalists.

They will be choosing the winners based on voting. Please click on the link

here to cast your vote. They have concealed the name of the poet -The name of my

entry is “A Journey towards freedom

Please do me a favor and vote for your fellow blogger.

Thanks a million,

Megha Sood

Shift – A Wise Woman Writes

Churned in chronic cloud

Wafted away

To tenebrous fray

I’m wrecked

Face down

Among ash anointed dirt

Abysmally amassing

Illness

Sadness

Death

So lonely

Don’t tell me

About reasons

Or better places

In this house

Where words are weapons

And welts wail long after

The belts been cinched

This is chaos

And I’m lost

Waiting for a day

When I’ll write pretty things

Now sweet singing is stifled

But for mournful melancholy

Seeping from my chest

Compressed

By weight

Of souls

I’ve collected

Disconnected

Rejected

Infected

Ready

For disintegration

To begin

Go ahead

Shift

See the original here https://wisewoman2016.wordpress.com/2019/04/19/shift/?fbclid=IwAR3i8B0mzf1WuFZo4-lkI471LVTmc6fRW5XQPItZ9PhmoRBgoNXrC02wC1E

The Body by Melita White

 

The body wants to move
wants to reinhabit itself
it wants to play
To bend arc writhe and double with grace and ease
The body lets go
It also gets tired
and stiff and it aches
The body takes up more space than the other bodies do
It is majestic and has presence
Full of symbolism and reference
it represents fundamental truths
cruel ironies and distortions
The body is encumbered
Yet extends beyond boundaries
The body is boundless Continue reading

To have without holding- Marge Piercy

This love poem by Marge Piercy speaks to me as strongly now as it did when I first read it over 30 years ago.

Learning to love differently is hard,
love with the hands wide open, love
with the doors banging on their hinges,
the cupboard unlocked, the wind
roaring and whimpering in the rooms
rustling the sheets and snapping the blinds
that thwack like rubber bands
in an open palm.
It hurts to love wide open
stretching the muscles that feel
as if they are made of wet plaster,
then of blunt knives, then
of sharp knives.
It hurts to thwart the reflexes
of grab, of clutch ; to love and let
go again and again. It pesters to remember
the lover who is not in the bed,
to hold back what is owed to the work
that gutters like a candle in a cave
without air, to love consciously,
conscientiously, concretely, constructively.
I can’t do it, you say it’s killing
me, but you thrive, you glow
on the street like a neon raspberry,
You float and sail, a helium balloon
bright bachelor’s button blue and bobbing
on the cold and hot winds of our breath,
as we make and unmake in passionate
diastole and systole the rhythm
of our unbound bonding, to have
and not to hold, to love
with minimized malice, hunger
and anger moment by moment balanced.
Marge Piercy, “To have without holding” from The Moon is Always Female. Copyright © 1980 by Marge Piercy.