Poetry Self-Harm

indigo by Yushan C.

Death wears a crown of holly and laurel, 
drapes her steed gold and green. 

Let me tell you something. 

She’s been haunting my dreams again, 
Ebony-haired and regal, 
a wraith with a siren’s song and elegant wrists. 
Now is not your time, she whispers, but gods. 
I am splitting apart between bone and sinew, 
Turning in my self-dug grave in a grove of ash trees. 
I splinter like wood, 
am set alight by the sun. 

Tell me: 
Would I get a crown like yours, 
if I close my eyes long enough?

Yushan C. is an emerging Canadian author who writes on nostalgia, identity, optimism… everything, really. She lives in Edmonton, AB and looks forward to starting an undergraduate degree. Her poem, “the ghosts in this house still haunt me”, was published in TERSE Journal; her poems “Atlas”, “epitaph for the living” and “maybe we are our own villains” were published in Edmonton Youth Anthology, Volume 1.

Depression Poetry

Poem by Simon Perchik

This is it –a match, wood, lit

the way a butterfly returns

by warming its wings wider

and wider, one against the other

then waits for the gust to spew out

as smoke lifting you to the surface

–this single match circling down

half on fire, half held close

is heating your grave, has roots

–embrace it, become a flower

fondle the ashes word by word

that erupt from your mouth

as an old love song, a breeze

worn away by hills and the light

coming back then lying down.

Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, Forge, Poetry, Osiris, The New Yorker and elsewhere. His most recent collection is The Reflection in a Glass Eye  published by Cholla Needles Arts & Literary Library, 2020. For more information including free e-books and his essay “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” please visit his website at

To view one of his interviews please follow this link

OCD Poetry

That Could Have Been Someone Singing by Jane Marston

Transformative, the mirror shows  
a me I hardly recognize—an evil twin, 
a raging doppelgänger. She-devil’s eyes 
glow like fired glass. What’s got me so 
unstrung? Boom box? Or car door 
slammed against the silence 
that’s my one 
safe space? I run inside; 
but the cave still echoes with a world I must
find my way back to, call and response 
      spiraling through time 
and urging me to follow. It might have been
a dark conspiracy that set these walls 
to ringing. Or I might have missed 
a pleasant strain. It might 
have been someone singing.

Jane Marston lives in Athens, Georgia, where she has spent many months learning to live with Misophonia, an OCD spectrum disorder marked by a dysfunctional response to certain sounds. In prior years, she has published poetry in journals including Southern Humanities Review, Birmingham Poetry Review, Blood & Fire Review, and Crucible.

Poetry Self-Harm

The Blade by Jerica Taylor

I carry a sword inside me, head to hips.

Some evenings, I want to dance until it clangs against my ribs loud enough to be heard.

Outside in the sun in the lingering chill of February, light glints off my chest, blinding. Steel shines just under the skin of my sternum. Is the blade finally going to rend me in half? Or is my body exorcising it like a splinter?

I press my hand to this new breastplate. I do not want to die in the daylight, but I fear turning inward to discover I have been hollowed, and am still walking.

In an unseen future, something could grow in that cleaned-out space; a pruned-back bush dormant for a season, a year, a decade. Any blossom would be an epiphany.

A stem in my hand.

Jerica Taylor is a neurodivergent queer cook, birder, and chicken herder. She has an MFA from Emerson College, and her work has appeared in Impossible Archetype, FERAL, perhappened, and The Fabulist. She lives with her wife and young daughter in the woods of Western Massachusetts.

Anxiety Poetry

GERD by Grace Alioke

morning crow escorts the
furnace feasting in your chest with

the rhythm of your heartbeat. what do
you do to the heart losing its crown to the wind?
you crawled as a wounded

snail to the doctor and the banshee scream
that pumped from your mouth

plastered on her table at her report:
Gastroesophageal Reflux Disease.
you’re chewing hope as the wheel leads

you to the theatre, and the crumps
grow wings:

I…will… live
I…will… live
I… will…live

Grace Alioke is a Nigerian writer and poet, decorator and a student of University of Benin. She writes only when her pen draws her. Her works have been published in Praxis magazine, Analogies & Allegories, Havilah Woman, and forthcoming in others. 

Poetry Trauma

Electroconvulsive Therapy Made Me Forget Many Things But Not Grief by Ashley Sapp

It’s quiet when you forget. At first.
They warn you that the stimulation will result
in memory loss, but they don’t tell you that
what you’ll be left with is grief.
You will trade your recollection for your mind.
You will face a gaping hole where experience used to be.
There is sadness in forgetting, but you’ll regain yourself, too.
Pain fades and scars emerge.
It is slow but not gentle — unfortunately.
There is a price for everything. This, too.
That is why there is grief – you are better
and yet you cannot remember how or why.
It is quiet when you forget because
the silence is what remains. After.
The silence is a sorrow sonnet, reminding you not of what was lost
but instead of the fact that you lost it.
Say hello, though, now.
Introductions are my new saviors,
tiny initiations of person, place, and thing. Petrified and preserving,
I am returning. It is not so quiet.

Ashley Sapp resides in Columbia, South Carolina, with her husband and furbabies. She earned a Bachelor of Arts degree in English from the University of South Carolina in 2010 and has written for various publications. Her work has previously appeared in Indie Chick, The Daily Drunk Mag, All Female Menu, and the Common Ground Review. She is a bibliophile who enjoys traveling, tattoos, and photography. Ashley has written two poetry collections: Wild Becomes You and Silence Is A Ballad. Twitter: @ashthesapp

Anxiety Poetry

Fire by Jonathan Todd

When you get home I’ll be sober

on my 5th cup of coffee

out of a hot shower

thinking about the dried out corn stalks

I passed on my way back from the store.

Bought a pack of smokes & chocolate,

chanted worries,

wrote piano music.

Thought and thought,

ceaseless minor notes,

olive oil and kitchen lights,

a single rose as the cooler air slips on.

I decide against lighting the table on fire

slip out for a smoke

still hot from the shower

cells open

a branch wrapped around itself.

Go back and forth

til I remember the last hit of oak

and stare at the cut on my finger

near my wedding ring.

Today I told my therapist I

don’t believe in anything.

Not sure what I was trying to get across then.

Still not sure now.

Jonathon Todd is a poet and musician, living in South Philadelphia. His work deals with observations mainly written between breaks, trying to find humanity outside of and within labor. His work has been featured in Philadelphia Stories, Prolit mag, and Protean mag among others. His chapbook Over/time was recently released  from Moonstone Press (2019).

Depression Poetry

DEPRESSION by Janet McCann

I think of my parents living through it,

spaghetti with home-grown tomatoes for dinner,

an egg for breakfast. Downturn, slump.

I feel it in my stomach, hollow, hole,

concavity, dent, lack of roundness,

off-kilter sphere. There are pills for it

of course, they smooth out the sharp shards

at the bottom of the dent, but the declivity

is still there. “Hard times,” my grandfather

said. They lived mostly on the kitchen

garden. Preserves. I saw the jewels of their jars

shining on basement shelves. Slowdown. Standstill.

I have the megrims. There is a crater

in the macrocosm, nothing

is filling it up.

Janet McCann is a Texas crone poet who is retired from Texas A&M University.

Poetry Serotonin Trauma

8:05 am by C. Cimmone

I chewed up two of your Norco for breakfast

9:16 am The dirt daubers were busy twitching their abdomens in the garden, hauling away tiny bits of mud I’ll never do anything with, so I smoked the rest of your weed you had in a socket.

11:25 am I got carried away thinking about what to do with all of your t-shirts until I smelled the skillet burning bacon grease.

3:45 pm I used all of my Xanax up; I dug around in the medicine cabinet and gobbled up your leftovers, too. 

10:57 pm I forgot to lock the front door, so I laid there on your side of the bed, hoping an armed stranger would burst in and save me from thinking anymore about you being gone.

C. Cimmone is an author, editor and comic from Texas. She is alive and well on Twitter @diefunnier

Depression Poetry

While I’m Battling Depression, I Read of a Man Sentenced to Death for Blasphemy by Timi Sanni

I do not sleep tonight, my eyes choose the certainty of light / stare up at the ceiling and write poems in the air as the night brews and boils outside, then again as the night calms in the anticipation of dawn. The world stops revolving & I’m stuck in this cocoon, so I constrict my lungs with the need to breathe / again / to rejuvenate the wilting flowers in the heart of my being. The internet carries my mind into the horror of a man who now wears a necklace of thorns. I do not want to imagine these thorns as skeletal hands squeezing the breath out of a man, bathing him in his life blood, because can one know what it means to die / to be dead & still look it in the face, unflinching? I know so much about sins because their claws have made a map of scars around my head, but death is an alien bringing extraterrestrial fears into this alliance of bodies. My depression is a mirror & blasphemy is a mountain. But repentance is thunder breaking rocks into powder. I imagine myself in the body of the judge / in the mind of the convicted / in the breath of a bystander and find peace in the remembrance of God and the hereafter’s promise of justice because life is built along the road of death / & death is a crossroad to glory or another death.

Timi Sanni is a Nigerian writer and literary enthusiast studying Biochemistry at Lagos State University, Nigeria. His works have appeared or are forthcoming in Radical Art Review, Writers Space Africa, Ethel Zine, Cypress: A Literary Journal, Rather Quiet and elsewhere. He recently won the SprinNG Poetry Contest 2020 and is the recipient of the Fitrah Review Prize for Fiction 2020. When not writing or studying, he is either painting or exploring new places. He is an editor for Kalopsia lit. Find him on twitter: @timisanni