Call for Submissions: There Is Strength In Our Stories

Submit your words !

Blood Into Ink

Call for Submissions

In honor of Sexual Abuse Awareness and Prevention Month, Blood Into Ink and We Will Not Be Silenced are putting out a call for submissions for your lived experience of sexual harassment and assault. We believe that there is strength in our collective voices. We believe our work is not done.  Writing and art accepted for There Is Strength In Our Stories will be published on Blood Into Ink’s website and through the BII social media accounts, as well as on the We Will Not Be Silenced Facebook page during the month of April 2019.

Writers and artists can submit up to three pieces of creative work (poetry, prose, essay, and/or original artwork.)  Pieces of writing should be limited in length (under 1,500 words.)   Using a pen name or publishing anonymously is acceptable.  You will be asked to provide a brief biography (75 words or less.)

Please do not consider…

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A blue attack

Blue, blue.
My hands leak blue crooked blood.
I tried suicide today.
Walked like a ghost/ a melancholy boiler.

a house that leaks.
wax statues going bizarre.
Bizarre like dissolving inside my hollow stomach.
i am here.
i am there.
A loop of curve, falling on the equinox.
burn this society inside my mouth
i wish death today.
I wish pain to kill my pain today.
blue, blue, this body.
tiptoeing through bones of fumes.
A zebra. A succulent spiral canvas.

Paint it dead.

submit your words here

https://bloodintoinkpressblog.wordpress.com/2019/03/29/call-for-submissions-there-is-strength-in-our-stories/

this poetry is countless.

Secret Witch Aesthetic requested by @samwinchesterfanfic

 

your body.
it spreads under my own body.
duplex spiral grapevine.
/
Cherries under your foot,
A lament to recite,
day and night.
count and tell me the times I sank for you,
in you,
above you.
/
My voices tore away like a sunburn.
love blooms love with such endearment
A landscape of Oval sunset all in your palms.

this sky lives like poetry in your belly.
Where i come and sleep, to absorb the moisture of cold nights.
I bloom, like a lotus, near a windowsill to worship you,
darling,
i see you like vintage telephones in my surreal mind.
Rings of vacant loneliness has eaten me, desiccated me.
so i bury myself in your atmosphere of springs and springs.

Sequences are memories. An atom dissolves.
Orange/rusty/moist
And I dissolve in you.

termination

Like i wished for a moon today,
this dirt of rocks life throws at me is amazing
amazing to watch the disgusting melting person in bed,
That’s me.

i do nor design this body of mine,
the sleekness, tenderness, whiteness.
At times, i feel i am hollow.
Hollow like a coconut’s head.

i want to stop my brain.
Potboiler. Frequent attacks. Time slapping me again and again.
i want to stop it all.

Backwards – Devika Mathur

Published on Free verse Revolution

FREE VERSE REVOLUTION

When you step your foot on the thin film of the sheet,
there is a red lampshade, moist and speaking mute voices.
you take a right turn then and you see a pill of god.
you slurp it backward, at the tip of your tongue,
thinking it shall slip softly down in your stomach,
hushing the coiled noises.

you always step backwards,
at night, like dirt, dust.
a morphed arm,
for you were a burden throughout the day
and you sulked too backwards,
life eating the humans.

prayers, chants
my lips curled, bitten like half-lit moon
speaking up things bizarre, backwards,
into the sky that spreads between my white legs.

i finish reading, walking all in a backward motion.
often i survive in this perfection.
i rub my hands, to circulate a thread of warmth onto my cheeks.
i live like that. Backwards.


Devika Mathur blogs at https://myvaliantsoulsblog.wordpress.com/

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windows and mirrors

Often, I am a whole another woman.
A woman who sighs with almond breaths,
oceanic concave shape of my face,
something like an oval,’with fingers typing “slow, breathe”
somewhere in this moist air.

This woman is inside my onion mind,
slithering an oculus bowl of chipped nights.
ah, eh, ah, eh
the voices are hollow,
and the dreams are crippled.
They modify too often, along with my neighbour’s talk.
I hear it like a tunnel.

Often, i am complete,
the stem of a leaking shoot.
The colours of my lovers words suffice the pain.
it happens, during the night,
i am not a sex object.
He makes me full.

Often, i just close my eyes,
these eyelids refuse to sleep,
they rather douse its callous mind in pain,
sobbing and sniffing
mirror plays a friend, too.
embossing my pain, love, all at once.


Poetry that eats me

I was told since beginning to breathe. Outside the loathing empty voice.
Like a romantic bud blossoming under the clear sky.
I knew i had some issue. I was often mad.
People called me anxious.
And life vomited every disgusted feeling, a black hole on my face.
I survived that.
i survived my anxiety.
The hollow arch of turpentine water did amaze me.
Somedays, the summers ring into my ears like a blade.
i had seizures too in the past. The ones that would burn my entire body
I became a quiet monologue, left to flip through times.

And often, I would swim among the pages of words,
words of my rummaging eyes, seeking nothing but love.
nothing but life,
oh, that life.
Iterative steps to defy this melancholy.
I rest this white clapping body onto the walls of poetry now.
it holds me like a lover.


In honor of- world poetry day.

Also, I like to keep my punctations just the way it is. (i=I)