Clitbait

Modern Woman

When you can’t walk in safety through the streets,
When you can’t learn to kiss a little later,
When you must drink;
Drink now, drink fast, drink soon,
When being sober and sensible is a forgotten necessity,
When you must wear fewer clothes and more slap,
Peel back the layers, pile on the concealer,
Reveal and hide at one and the same time,
When you feel your identity swept away and made homogenous,
When you question the prevalence of the word:
Identity. Your identity. Self-identity.

When these things concern you more than what once concerned your forbears;
Eating, drinking, living, bleeding, voting, heating,
When you forget the travails suffered for those rights,
When all of that is submerged beneath today,
Mindfulness and meditation force the now,
Ignore the morrow and forget the yesterday.
When such things concern you,
You will walk in my shoes.
What is it like to walk in yours?

Anonymous

I have two mothers

I have two mothers
One who bore me, raised me  
And the step mother who’s lap I fell into 
One nourished my soul
The other taught me how to be whole
One’s love kept me furled 
The other showed me the gigantic world 
A step-mother? I say, surprisingly  
Yes, I never wanted you here
You simply were never part of the plan
How did mum allow this?
How did she accepted help from another woman
to raise her child?
She says a twinge of jealousy shot through her body
When I said I was happy here
But today I sit here thinking 
How do I solely become one’s!
I belong to both equally 
I hold myself responsible for them both
Mrs.Back-home and Mrs.Home 
Stepmom taught me all the clever tricks 
Which I then used to improvise mum’s wholesome ways 
I never wanted mum to feel she’s lesser in anyway 
I wanted her to walk the modern way 
For if one day, stepmom abandons me
Back home is ready to embrace this evolved self
For if one day, when stepmom taunts me on my past
I can prove her wrong.
You see, I don’t know anymore 
Who do I belong to more 
The heart is divided, maybe that is the reason it is not at peace
I carry the fear of being unfair 
Today I live in a limbo 
Torn and empty 
Tired of proving my love for both 
Today, I long for both 
Neither I hear mum’s cries 
Nor I see stepmom’s glorious skies
I ask, were my plans foiled?
Even though our situation is peaceful 
I pray that one is never in it
but if they ever find themselves here 
I promise to set an example for them of 
Coexisting in two distant worlds

Yours truly,
Miss.Immigrant 

Fatema Kiani
Instagram: @fatemabayan

 

For the Millennium

Jennifer told me about 
unsolvable math problems–
people work for years to find solutions
only to realize the mathematicians before them were right:
there aren’t any.

(It doesn’t stop them from trying, though.)

We all think that we can be the exception
be the one for whom
the piece of the universe fall together
the one to create something simple
from the realm of the impossible
to have it be so
because we believe.

Rae Rozman

Rae Rozman (she/her) is a femme dyke living and working in Texas. Her poetry, which often explores themes of queer love (romantic and platonic), loss, and education, has been featured in several literary magazines and anthologies. A school counselor by day, Rae spends her time reading science fiction novels and snuggling her rescue bunnies. You can find her on Instagram @mistress_of_mnemosyne sharing poems, book reviews, and bunny pictures.

What I felt when I found this Blog

Stumbling through rich thickets, 
a woven moss carpet gives way 
to light  
Here is our clearing 
Our stone circle
fringed, not with ancient grey slabs, 
but with words 
Home of unicorns
Where voices rise cacophonous 
Soundless tales of women 
unbent 
Our lives a force 
Which cannot be spent 
A chorus 
of throw your hands to the sky 
and 
Dance 

Madeline Tinson

Sister Witch

Our first grey hairs 
will be a riot, 
a festival 
a bonfire 

When you first taught me 
laughter, 
it was a step 
into your May garden 
everything set a light 
in bloom 

Your hands were made to build
love, 
tiny things 
come alive 
like butterflies 

You are the magic I forgot I’d lost, 
the ancient woods 
the singing stream 
the moon
are your eyes, 
the widest I’ve seen 

Who needs a sister 
when they can have 
A Witch

Madeline Tinson

Fans of History as an Abstract Concept

Push a racist in the sea,
Men that lived abhorrently,

Stone that never taught me shit,
Throw that racist in a pit,

No place for cheers of bigotry,
We’re making our own history,

So hateful views do not transmit,
Smash that racist, bit by bit.

Sy Brand

Sy is a queer non-binary person living in Edinburgh, Scotland. They write through the haze of cat-/child-induced sleep deprivation to try and make sense of gender, relationships, and ADHD. You can find them on Twitter @TartanLlama and their publications at https://sybrand.ink.

Memory Wipe

Loom thread under wood-born
fingers, holes in molten core,
memory stitching
life digital through the breath
of ants, wire wiping brows
against leaf weight
as they tread light
on the feet of man.

Sy Brand

Sy is a queer non-binary person living in Edinburgh, Scotland. They write through the haze of cat-/child-induced sleep deprivation to try and make sense of gender, relationships, and ADHD. You can find them on Twitter @TartanLlama and their publications at https://sybrand.ink.

Core Movement

Fleshfall through bent mattress, I catch
floorboard nails with mine
as we tumble flamewards
through earthen blanket
and white-knuckle

Sy Brand

Sy is a queer non-binary person living in Edinburgh, Scotland. They write through the haze of cat-/child-induced sleep deprivation to try and make sense of gender, relationships, and ADHD. You can find them on Twitter @TartanLlama and their publications at https://sybrand.ink.

Isolation Solo

I

What do I want to prove?

To show that I am strong

I have everything within

Except fear.

I find

Home is the shell I carry 

Not these walls these borders these people

It’s this skin this heart this blood

These tears sweat muscles

Calluses    

Bare feet.

II

This time is a sanctum

An age to be alone, an era to be me,

A stretch to embrace.

This time is a sanctum

A mirrored studio to discover my own rhythm,

A workshop, with myself the great art.

Stretched on the table:

A half-drawn blueprint for me.

This time is a sanctum

A shelter to be emancipated of prying eyes, 

to relinquish expectations,

A theatre without audience, where I can

                                                                             drop the act.

This time is a sanctum

A gallery to roam

To observe my reflection.

To look at myself      and sit with myself.

To ask questions, probe, test.

To run away    

and run back.

To float, to taste, to scream, to sing.

III

Nothing to do, nowhere to be. 

                                                        Everything to do, 

                                                                                                  and everywhere to see.

Anastasia Georgousis

Longing 

I long for the life I built for myself 

With bricks that came from a place within that I didn’t know was there 

With confidence that had lain low for years 

I plucked the plumbing from my chest and built friendships 

And from there the foundations were steady and firm 

We tiled the bathroom with our insecurities and painted over them 

And hung lightbulbs in the dark parts of each other. 

We aired our laundry in the open, and learned to love the creak of the crooked floorboards 

We cemented the walls with shared experience and covered them with pictures of us 

There’s no fight in the world a string of fairy lights won’t fix. 

I long to return to the life we all built 

Through women building up women 

Through endless wine nights and conversations. 

I went looking for an education 

And with it found a lifetime’s worth of company 

Robyn Barclay

home coming

coming home is as close to time-travel as i may ever get. the nostalgia drips from my skin. 

it mingles with the dampness of my sweat. it seems to remember the cool swimming hole, & the blue t-shirts. 

my body remembers more than my mind. a smell, a sound, the sensation of an embrace. 

impressions linger longer & i mull the taste of home over in my mouth. it is sweet. 

i can’t help but miss the familiarity. i can’t help but miss the ease. i can’t help but miss 

you. don’t wait for me, at the top of those stairs. i’ll be there when i can, it’s only a matter of time. 

Sophie Nankivell, Poetry Editor

Sensual:

In quarantine, I have masturbated.
A lot.
Despite being a pretty sexual person,
this is something I typically never do.
It has taken a global pandemic to pleasure myself.
Who’d have thought?

I light a candle and get a good playlist on.
Then, I’m good to go.
You know the rest.

It is fun, and it is relief.
But it is not sensual.

I miss touch.
I miss sweat, gasping,
clinging on for dear life.
I miss communication, being told
that feels good, yeah, that’s
so good.

No amount of plastic vibration can make up for a lack of human intimacy.
Until then,
‘Jessica Rabbit’ will have to do.

Anna Cowan

Home:

Home changes.
Some things are static;
my all-consuming bed,
my record player,
the train from Hillfoot.

Some things move around;
my stacks of books,
my battered shoes,
my body.

But home can be new.
Home can be the Pacific ocean,
endless humidity and the
mountains, tall and pale,
framing my life for seven months.
Home can be being underage again,
a city that never sleeps.

Home can be my love,
soothing, warm, elevating.
Home can show me parts of myself
I am often too frightened to show.

Home can be me.
Home is me.

Anna Cowan