So, while we’re on the subject... And yeah, I know WE are not, but you see, I still am and probably always will be, Because I know it’s been almost 40 years but He still makes random cameos in my nightmares

Mona Mehas Mona Mehas (she/her) is a retired disabled teacher in Indiana USA with 7 chapbooks published and one novel, Under the Bubble (Between the Lines Publishing). Twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize (Paddler Press 2023, TV-63 Project, 2025) and Best New Poet (Lucky Jefferson 2024). She works with Cicada Song Press and Engage!, an online Star Trek fan magazine. Mona is always writing while perpetually distracted by her next chapbook. Portals of Presence portals, realms

Oaring toward an unknown shore, I dream a horizon where a boat with yellow sails plies purple waters. Estelle leaves a message on my phone: Your mother is dead.

I found a "Find your way” without a way out This maze usually given to children as entertainment.

A deep sense of wrongness wakes me Skin clings tightly to my bones Movement a struggle Breath rasps I twist my body out of bed Struggle into clothes Limp to the car A row. I need a row.

Lifelong abuse of ASD-me by the herd-brained horde caused my hoard, built of C-PTSD. I abhor this hoard as the tomb of my life. I whisper, “gently, gently, slowly,” as I carefully disinter fragments of myself without collapsing the telling layers of this tel. Artifacts haunt me.

The contents of my handbag, every last cent in my purse, My car key, household items, screwdrivers and a knife, A child’s blue pillowcase they stuffed with bottles of red wine, My wedding set, the golden band and nested diamond, My emerald ring, the only thing I owned that was my granny’s,

One of my most prominent childhood memories is waking up in mid-September to find all of my tooth fairy money has been stolen. With little effort, I guilted my father into admitting he had taken it to buy a fresh pack of cigarettes at my expense. Anguish poured through my chest and out my tears; I couldn’t believe a father could be so cruel. I vowed to never touch a cigarette until the day I died.

loving it all and missing you despite the fact that you only live four miles away. if i really wanted to, i could bound up those concrete porch stairs that spent years getting to know the bottoms of my shoes and knock on your squeaky screen door. the familiar smell of anise and the claustrophobic sound of caged bird wings would greet me.

I hold my knees to my chest, hoping pressure will still my racing heart, slow the blood, turn hyperventilating back into breath. I bury my face, flush, sticky, wet, against the concrete wall that has come to know me— hoping my neighbors won’t hear me whimper.

The spoon in the drawer trembled. The wallpaper memorized the angle of his hands. I am reporting that the doorknob turned at 11:47 pm & held the shape of fingers long after

I witnessed a murder. Your father already did the deeds. There is nothing left to kill. Death leaned in and whispered the only time you were alive was the bleeding. You hid your bones inside my body. Used me as a bandage. What arms. What teeth. What eyes— those green mirages that collapsed into an endless tunnel of shadows.

She sets sail by stars to a wreck of reef Submerged in shadow. Adrift, a stormleaf That cannot settle, this woman I’ve braced Tremoring as she relives the quick taste

For many years on my birthday, my Grandma Lil baked me a cake in the shape of a lamb. Miss Lamby Cake consisted of white cake and white buttercream frosting, with shredded sweet coconut for her “fur” and jellybeans for her brown eyes and pink nose.

Greg Kousoulis I once heard that the title of a poem should act like a light switch, allowing a reader to properly see the words, and I believe this to be true for a (good) cover letter… Again, I do not have this. So, with you, the reader, being in the dark, I’d like to apologize for the lack of light, but I hope you don’t trip over these poems and come out unscathed. Greg Kousoulis, 29 years old, lives in Santa Monica, CA. A Ghost Story Ghost is not a ghost, but instead, a b

Roxanna Gumiela In her retirement, Roxanna Gumiela is a trauma informed yoga instructor and writer. She is a survivor of childhood sexual abuse and writes about her journey to wellness, which incorporates yoga and mental health therapy. Roxanna has had works of creative nonfiction and poetry published in We’ve Got Some Things to Say (2024), and Making Space for the Light (2026). The Light in Me The first thing I noticed as I stepped through the inner door of the hot yoga

Diya Verma Diya Verma is an undergraduate student of Behavioral Psychology. Presenting her thoughts in the form of metaphors has always been a close habit to her. Her poems explore her thoughts, which are raw and valid. BLOOD OF A LADY Red liquid, all over her body, when she is born. Red signs, all over her mind, when she is grown. Red battles, she has to face, against the societal norms. Red liquid leaves her once again, in nature's hidden form. Red scars, are carried by he

Sophia Lovell Sophia is from San Diego, California. Having graduated with a degree in English and a minor in professional editing from UCSB, she is now a freelance writer of all things: articles to poetry. She is a lover of her dogs, coffee shops, mystery thrillers, and the oxford comma. Number 46 “And tell us please, why was it that you did not report your rape?” The man to my left nudges his knee into mine. Adults truly are just children with a few more lines on the

Georgia Shuster Georgia Shuster (she/her) is an undergraduate student at the College of Charleston majoring in psychology and classics in the Honors College while also being a member of the varsity sailing team. A survivor of sexual and physical abuse as a young teenager, she uses her voice in poetry to advocate for those who are in the position she was once in. Death Day No one knows I died that day. A brisk spring mid-morning, The sun peaking out behind the clouds. Stor

Jamorra DuBose Morris Jamorra DuBose Morris experienced as an Off-Broadway Director, and a result driven Playwright with more than five years creating original shows at reputable theaters in New York City. Starting her journey as a visual artist, fashion designer at the High School of Fashion Industries in New York City. During high school, she grew an even greater passion for advertising, storytelling, and mixed medium art which fueled her start in Performance Art. In 2016,

Rain Rain has been fascinated by words and language since childhood—a curiosity that has taken many forms, from pursuing a linguistics degree to building an ever-growing bookshelf and a substantial collection of poetry now ready to be shared more widely. Their work explores how anxiety, obsessive thinking, and trauma shape both perception and language. Many of their poems draw on repetition, fragmentation, and recursive structures, mirroring the loops and rituals of intrusive

Eli Germaine Eli Germaine is an aspiring writer native to south Florida. Her creative works have been published in Plants & Poetry Journal, Floating Acorn Review, and Poets on the Fringe: Anthology Two. She partakes in nature and confessional writing in both poetry and creative nonfiction genres, delving into these personal styles to help awaken the tenderness of our natural world while also providing a voice for herself and others who have experienced trauma and live a life

Danyeris Lopez Danyeris Lopez is a 24-year-old immigrant from the Dominican Republic whose life has been shaped by resilience, faith, and a strong sense of purpose. Raised in a low income household marked by instability, she learned early on how to navigate challenges with resourcefulness and determination. As a Christian and active member of her church and community, Dany is grounded in service, compassion, and showing up for others in meaningful ways. She is a legal profes

Christelle Potgieter Christelle is a Namibia-based writer currently working on a memoir about trauma, addiction, and recovery titled, Fear. Her writing explores mental health, resilience, and the strength women find in reclaiming their lives after hardship. People often ask when my mental illness started. I never know how to answer that question. Did it begin when I was a child living in a home where safety did not exist? When I learned too early that the people meant to prot