The Seamstress

Published by PSILoveYou Sitting at the table with needle and thread, I’m eyeing the pieces of you, cast like discarded clothing, throughout the room. I move from scrap to scrap, gathering muscle, sinew and bone, laying out the pattern of you in my mind. My tears run freely at the sight of self-destruction, hitching a... Continue Reading →

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Ruffled Edges – Chris Nelson

This week I have been so fortunate to read stunning work by outstanding writers. Chris Nelson deals a fatal blow to my composure with this gracefully eloquent blade.


We came here so

Many years ago,

Chasing the ruffled edges

Of a crumpled photograph

Its monochrome hues whispering

Hushed voices still echoing

From white-edged border to faded frame,

Days stilled by wishful perception

Of contentment borne on wings

Which hung like the slow-mouthed moon

Captured by the eye but slipping ever

Between the fingers that reached out

Lost like the hopeful,

And frozen images caught our eye

Like souls entrapped –

And did we know that ours would follow?

Or was it all a dream

The promise that we shared

With a belief in something better?

And we’ll meet again one day

When all the pictures have faded

And all our dreams have died,

We’ll visit them at night

And walk along the rows

Of all we never knew

And ponder why we came

And shred ourselves on all we ever lost.

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson…

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Closure II: Fetus In Fetu ~ Maggie Lawson


fetus in fetu (2)Whispers,
enough to turn my head,
make me crawl inside
that dank hole,
back to that which birthed me,
and entombed
in the womb of my wounding.

I watch my skin squirm,
writhing crests
climb to silvered peaks.
The death throes
of her dying days
enthrall me

Umbilicaled pain;
just a phantom
of a severed limb
or aborted life
cut off,

like the air
her lungs crave
as she suffocates on ashes
I stuff down her throat
in dry-eyed

Patience is mine
for I am

as will she be.

©Copyright Maggie Lawson 2018

(Read part 1 here)

Maggie chews crayons here: The Art of Chewing Crayons

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Healing Trauma

Have you ever had really bad sunburn, skin blistered and raw? Trauma is like that; it leaves us so sensitive that even a hug is painful. Healing involves avoiding further injury whilst repairing the skin that covers our nerves. The problem is that the wounded often bring the sun inside with them as lies the... Continue Reading →


Elegantly vulnerable, ingeniously crafted, pure.


sprawled figures basking in the impressionist sun
shooting through a break in the clouds

he said
you are forest thick brush strokes of my outdoors

a window opening on landscapes devoid of human presence
my lack of sharpness, my fine edges

he said
you are my fleeting glimpse of forgotten languages

an ephemeral moment
lived without a straight jacket

he spoke of water lilies and japanese bridges
imprisoned in an imperfect symmetry

and a dream he had of a cuckoo
pardoned by time

your heart is river shaped
he said

your winds intensely colored and homeless
howl through my trees

i was his mother’s womb
he said

throwing his elongated shadow
on my walls as

I flung off my everything to expose
my naked body to the firing squad


* You can read more of Bojana’s work at Blogging with Bojana

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My skin creeps in tight pinches when I hear it, hear them reason away their sex, their appetites. They know we are the unlined back side of the page to you, the shadowed side you lay face down as you punish our skin in hurredly scrawled notes and random bits of information you dont want... Continue Reading →


The assumption is that wells are good to drink from, that they puncture a clean vein, but you do not want to sup the oily waters of mine. That black tea is steeped in misery, my fingers and toes still wrinkled from its bathe after crafting my escape with the hair and bones of a... Continue Reading →

Stitching Bones~ Susan Richardson

If it’s perfection you seek then look no further. Be schooled in the art of soul tattooing, open wide your synaptic gap because the arcing pulse is a sweet megavolt slam.


I have known the murmur of rage all my life,
writhing inside my veins like serpentine flash.
I resign myself to the ache of living in captivity.
Garlands of anger cascade over the edges of
pedestals carved from violence and shackle me
to walls covered in the scent of rancor.
I climb into the teeth of misery.
She is a vice that clamps my mouth silent,
turning my words into shards of hatred
that burrow into the back of my throat.
The strike of a serrated refrain crumbles me
into silage, feeding the roots of an unbearable
noise that lingers in the hum of my blood.
I sink quietly into the clamor,
stitching my bones with filaments of patience.
One day, I will emerge, voice mended,
a battalion of embers on my tongue,
and incinerate your mocking grin.

©Copyright Susan Richardson 2018

You can read more of Susan’s work on…

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Wishful Thinking

"According to my records, you have been gifted nine wishes by Amazoo in honour of their ninth birthday." "I thought it was usually three wishes?" Esme peered at David over the top of her glasses. "It's a special birthday deal, Sir." "Oh. Well, umm, I wish for..." "Wait just a minute! There are certain procedures and protocols before you start randomly wishing, you know." "Sorry. I didn't realize." "Firstly, I need to check the suitability criteria. Have you ever had a heart condition, high blood pressure, mental illness, drug or alcohol dependency or back injury?" "Um, no, no, no, no and no." "Have you ever been convicted or are you waiting to appear on any charges related to fraud, theft, assaults or crimes against another person?" "No. Look I don't see what any of this has to do with me getting my wishes." "It's just procedure, Sir. Now, sign here, and here, and initial here, here, here, and here," said Esme handing David a stack of documents and a pen. "Oh, both copies please. Great."

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