Virginity- Rishika Sangeeta

Rishika resized

they tell me my skin is parchment
meant to bear the imprint of a man’s hungry hands
that if I should come already ink stained,
a story unfurling like a runway behind me
then I am tainted, unworthy,
I carry the disease of another man’s touch on my soul
and how can that make me pure?
how can that have left me whole?

Whole for whom? I ask them.
They titter, purse their lips,
call me a child and a fool.
So I stand my ground,
craft every wound into a grenade,
turn my words into a warzone
where some find shelter,
and some find flames

I tell them I will stay
tainted as I am
I tell them that a love that cannot hold space for all of me
is not Love at all
I tell them their sons have ruined countless women already
and if there is no room for us here
then there is no forgiveness,
no absolution on Heaven or Earth
for the sins of their flesh
I tell them my body has known violence,
my heart has known loss,
and if their sons cannot see me for who I truly am
then it is I who do not want them


Rishika Sangeeta is a therapist in training and a writer of romantic prose and poetry. She spends hours in communion with the dark and her heart in a constant quest to unearth some meaning from the mayhem of living.

On Any Given Sidewalk

we walk in sync

identic hips and matching strides

gamely we pound

city streets

fitness and Fitbit driven

we tramp not here

for your errant eyes

sliming down

our hips and thighs.

in this city

that is ours

as much as yours

we stride here

on a mission

that has naught

to do with you.

 

we lose track

as we walk and talk

of uncouth observations

we cannot count

suggestive comments

unsought invitations

yes, workout pants

hug our curves

bodacious and deliberate

displayed not

for your lewd

connotations.

 

we have trained

each in our own

crucibles

for gauntlet streets

darling daughter

braved

aggressive Argentine catcalls

I weathered

prison hallway

jump-suited eye-fucking.

 

we are conditioned

to turn deaf ear

hood blind eyes

under the barrage

of pervasive

verbal and visual

assault.

 

ask any woman

girl or crone

to recount

the herstory

of harassment.

she will fade of breath

before the first chapter

is recorded,

discomfited that any

might assume a postscript

 

#metoo rendered

in sepia ink

superfluous

 

these are our streets

Swear To Me is available for purchase!

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We pleased to announce that Nicholas Gagnier’s book Swear To Me is available for purchase on Amazon.com.  In addition to many fine pieces written by Nicholas, this volume includes writing by Blood Into Ink Curators Rachel Finch, Kindra M. AustinSarah Doughty, Aurora PhoenixDom, 1Wise-Woman, Nathan McCool, and Christine RayOther contributors to this volume include such Friends of Blood Into Ink  Rana KellyEric SyrdalWard Clever,   Aakriti Kuntal, Lois E. Linkens, Olde PunkNathan McCool, and Nicole Lyons

This volume explores what it is like to live with depression and other types of mental illness.  Profits from its sale will be donated to mental health organizations.  We are deeply honored to have been included in this volume and hope that you will consider purchasing a copy.

We’re All Complicit- A. G. Diedericks

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Beloved stage actress Tallulah Blackhead once said, “I was raped in our driveway when I was eleven. You know darling, it was a terrible experience because we had all that gravel.”

Now, how you react to that, says a lot about what kind of person you are.

We’re all complicit for sitting down and not taking action at stand-up shows, where the act indoctrinates rape culture.

We’re all complicit for calling her a feminist without actually looking up the word “feminist”

Men are complicit for saying, “don’t lump me in with all males”

without taking the time to understand why she became a misandrist.

Teenage boys are complicit for not doing anything at the party when you see an anesthetized body being carried up to a room by the jock.

Fearing an ass-kicking by the football team, never mind the anal-rape that awaits her that night & the fucked up stigma that she’ll run into on Monday morning.

Teenage girls are complicit for watching their ex-friend flirting with a date-rapist and not warning her because you two had a falling out over some trivial bullshit.

Women are complicit for saying, “He’s changed. It happened in the past; Why do you wanna bring up that shit again? move on, already”

I am complicit for living in a patriarchal world and writing a fucking poem that should not have to be written in the first place.


A.G. Diedericks is a cinephile in the midst of being gentrified into a bibliophile… colonized by mediocrity. He moonlights as a clandestine writer. You’ll find him in a dark alley over at the cuckoo’s nest, where he often lays to rest in Cape Town, SA.  You can find more of his writing at Sudden Denouement

I Never Told Anyone

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I was six years old the first time I ever removed my clothes at a boy’s request. His name was Michael, and he had a younger sister called Stacy. The three of us played together nearly every day when my family lived on Huggins Road—Michael and Stacy lived with their mother and father directly across the street. It was a hot day. I remember sweating in the dry, prickly grass, staring up at a sky so perfectly blue, I never wanted to look away. Michael lay on top of me in the backyard of his house; I will never forget the sensation of his flaccid penis smooshed against my labia. Pale skinned and white-blonde, Stacy was naked, too, standing in bright sunbeams—she seemed to glow.

My parents had friends who lived on the other side of Flint. I can’t recall their names, but they had a Doberman Pinscher, Angel. The couple had two children, Kenny and Sara, who were both older than me by a good few years. Kenny, who frequently liked to pull down his pants and shake his penis in my face, used to show me Playboy magazines that he’d pilfered from his dad.

We moved to Lapeer when I was seven years old. That summer, my mother told my uncle—her baby brother—that he wasn’t allowed in the pool with me anymore because she’d caught him with his penis exposed through the slit of his trunks while he and I were swimming together. In elementary school—third grade—a boy named Kevin found a discarded condom on the playground, and told his friends he’d used it on me.

In middle school, there was boy who would always sneak up and stand behind me, then he’d grab my hand and press it into his crotch. By the time I was a freshman, most of my friends had already had sex. When I was fifteen, there was one boy in particular who I crushed hard for, and he liked me, too. His name was Jeremy. One time, he and his cousin came over to my best friend’s house, where I was spending the night, and the four of us went for a walk; we ended up in the woods. I was ultimately left alone with Jeremy. Holy hell, he was cute. I let him kiss me, and feel me up under my shirt, but over my bra. My eyes welled up when he unzipped his pants, and pressed his erect penis against my pelvis. It was summer, and I was wearing light cloth shorts that were too fucking short. Jeremy lay on top of me, forced my legs apart, and humped me quite violently—he didn’t penetrate me. I opened his back with my fingernails, but he wouldn’t stop. I went for his neck, but he grabbed my wrists and kept on pumping. The skin of my inner thigh had been rubbed so aggressively, it cracked and bled and bruised.

I was married to my daughter’s father when he sexually assaulted me. We’d been out drinking. I was incoherently drunk when we arrived home in the middle of the night, but I do remember going bed in my clothes. I woke up the next day naked from the waist down, bleeding from my anus, and in pain.

Jesus. I’ve never told Jim any of this. Before now, I’ve never told anyone.

No reblogs, please.

I Told Him No

Nicole Lyons/The Lithium Chronicles

The Lithium Chronicles

He told me how brave I was,
writing my story into a sea of stigma,
how my words, my voice,
would break waves and save souls,
a lighthouse for the mentally ill,
the distraught, the unloved.

I told him no.

He told me how beautiful I was,
smiling sadly with eyes like burnt moons
hiding secrets behind the sun,
a gravitational pull for the mentally ill,
the distraught, the unloved.

I told him no.

He told me how special I was,
tempting great men with good faith,
a harlot born from Satan’s tongue,
a perfect delusion for the mentally ill,
the distraught, the unloved.

I told him no.

He told me he was mentally ill,
distraught, unloved,
in dire need of desperate release,
and salvation would only come on his knees,
shaking to the sound of my voice.

I told him no.

He told me how sorry I would be

View original post 55 more words

When words were all I had …Stephanie Lohrfink

My blood turned to ink when words were all I had.
When words were all I had to convey what a monster you were.
What a monster you are.
Still. To this day,
I despise you.
No more shall I feel daunted by you.
To better myself, I’ve reopened my scars,
Taken my quill pen,
Dipped it into my deep, burgundy red blood,
And scratched away.
Words poured from my soul.
With each scratch of the quill, I felt release.
A release like never before.
Digging deeper into my flesh with my quill …
Laceration after laceration …
Snatching all the blood I could get,
To provide the ink for thoughts.
The words were overshadowing the pain.
I couldn’t keep up with my brain.
The more I wrote, the better I felt.
Weird?
Not weird.
Freeing.
Only a moment ago, I couldn’t bear the thought of you.
Remembering meant feeling.
Feeling meant shutting down.
Shutting down meant losing.
Losing meant almost losing it all.
Everything.
Not now.
Fuck you.
Fuck all that you’ve done to make me the person I am.
Fuck you.
The person, I WAS.
I’m no longer under your spell.

Free for years, physically, but tortured in thoughts, relentlessly.
Some may have called you sick … I called you Lucifer.
Satan … The Devil.
You lost at life when you stole my innocence.
Your own daughter.


My name is Stephanie Lohrfink, my website is JuSteph4All … I currently live in Byram, NJ, where most people know you, yet act like they don’t LOL 😉
I have an extreme love for conveying life in colorful words! Since I can remember, I have loved everything about writing and creating.. bringing my mind to different places, better yet … having someone else’s mind go to another place, makes me happiest!! I’m a wife, daughter, and most importantly … Mom. I live and breathe for my family. I love to write, read, ride my bike, hang at the lake, NYC, being outside!!
My guilty pleasure is trashy, cheesey romance novels lol All in all, I’m pretty laid back… walking through this thing called life!!

Thrust and Parry

you thrust your ego

onto the table

a gorgonizing centerpiece

caustic hyperbolic sales pitch

embroiders length and breadth

disproportionate

to reality.

phenomenal fiction

legendary

in the monstrous meanderings

of your own vainglorious

mind

you subjugate

under convoluted guise

demonic clown disguises

ram your sordid peonage

down the throats

of would be dissenters.

I see your rant

weaponized interjection

coronary inducing cocking

of your pistol

under menacing thumb.

I raise you unruffled feathers

as I block your swordplay

smooth my skirts

decisive yet demure

gather centuries of sisterhood

steadfast survival

set sail for smoother waters

leave you

foaming and frenzied

to your own

self-abuse

Shards of Hope- Alethia Green

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Your words hurt like salt in the wound that burns

and cannot heal with the constant ripping,

tearing you perform like maintenance

It’s not even safe hiding under the bed

memories seep through the mattress and burn me

like the toxic substance it is

I should just be a melted puddle

of pain colored tears to be mopped up

and forgotten

To others my slumped shoulders

and dropped eyes are a burden

Where is my smile?

It was ripped apart

Buried in the garden of abuse of my father

Buried in the garden of hurt of my first love

Buried in your river of lies

The one that waters the vines that choke me

until i can’t breath

Maybe that’s why I don’t rest

I forget to struggle for air

I begin to die

Memories are heavy

solid things that bury me

like a crumpled building

I’ll lay on the sharp shards of what was hope

Look up and smile

pretend

like always

to help you all cope


I’m 44 and have 3 kids and the proud Nana of 2.
I write from the places in me I don’t easily share and I hope it touches you somewhere you let sleep.
You can read more of my writing and follow me at Twistdbutterfly