What can my body offer to this world? 
My body, not me, because I am a person, and my soft, slutty body is not. 
Because if my body were a person, 
my mother would tell me to continue college and not to strip for money. 
My father would teach me the right man would love my personality, 
not tell me an hourglass figure is the only one to pleasure a man. 
If my body were a person, 
past lovers would not have screwed me into submissive vomiting. 
But I am a woman, with an objective body, 
and my body can offer you anything you’d like 
when you don’t have to ask permission. 


Author Bio:
Makaila Daniels is a freelance writer and has been writing since 2013. She has a BA in Women’s Studies and a BFA in Creative Writing from Hamline University in St. Paul, MN. She is still at Hamline, where she is working to complete her MFA in Creative Writing. Upon her acceptance into the MFA program, she received the Shirley Pearl Scholarship for her exceptional writing sample. She is dedicated to her work in the mental health field and volunteers as a Sexual Assault Advocate and Crisis Counselor. Mercedies currently resides in Chisago City, MN with her boyfriend and their two children, Logan and Harmony.

Dear God,

​It’s been such a strange relationship between the both of us. I have pulled. I have resisted. And I cannot tell you this will change. But I know what your fundamentals are. They are much like mine. And maybe you are perfect. Maybe you do not make a mistake. Maybe you do not stumble as I do. But I do not want to treat you like perfection, even if that is what you are. Because I cannot relate to perfect. And I cannot tolerate,
“everything happens for a reason,” or “God does not give you anything you cannot handle.” Because there are many things that my friends and loved ones have not handled. Because suicide exists. And today, I heard two of my loved ones speak about it. I heard two of my loved ones want to switch places with the one in the casket. And I do not know if one day they will commit to this action. But today, I know they were committed to the thought. And I do not blame them for their feelings, nor the events that led them down that path. I have uttered the same words in my mind; even from my mouth. Those words were underwhelming to deaf ears. They were not carved and branded to theirs as they were to mine, which should tell you that I am not deaf nor daft. And neither are my loved ones. My ear drums burst open and my heart became colder than any winter of “To Build A Fire”. My skin emptied of light. Because my loved ones do not know they are loved. I cannot put my heart inside their chest and expect a strong beat.

​God are you listening? Did you hear me? Did you hear them? Did your ear drums burst? Did your eyes cry blood? A creation such as yours feeling more like a deformation? The pursuit of happiness never made sense to me. Because for my loved ones, it is not a pursuit. it is a hunt. It is do or die. I have seen them smile. I have seen them laugh. I may have been so fortunate as to be the catalyst of both of these things. but i know that happiness, true happiness does not fade like theirs does. And true sadness looms to keep the house cold. They have true sadness. God, I do not know you. I do not hate you for those you have called. I do not weep for questions, but weep for answers. Answers I can give to my loved ones. and the only way I can see you is in the good things. I do not see you in the bad. I do not know what things you have stored for me, nor my loved ones. However, they need to see something in their good, in their happiness, in their hunt. Give them peace. the sigh of relief instead of the sigh of frustration. Her cheeks are red with the damage of her own hands. And I love her. I love her, but love does not reach a soul without peace. So let her have peace without the headstone. Because she does need rest, although not the kind she speaks about. I haven’t spoken to you in so long. I know I come to you as though I have spoken to you everyday. But today, I have witnessed my loved ones feel unloved. I do not know who else’s love is stronger. My love is not strong enough. My peace is not strong enough. I do not have enough of my own to give.

So I am looking to you.


Author Bio:
Natalie Stewart is not a religious person. She simply had a very tough day when two people very close to her told her of their desire to commit suicide. She did not know what to do. She ran out of places to look for positive affirmations to give them. She is still unsure what to do still but she is not going to give up the hunt for answers.

​There’s still a chance, sit
so you can’t see the tunnel
fanning out behind you and the sky 

that knows so much about it
lowers this train to the ground
still falling back, tormented

by something overdue, the seat
half firewall, half 
some hollow mound moving away 

without the others, high above 
the evening you are looking for
though you turn your back

the way your eyelids are used to the dark
at home in your hands, no longer 
uncertain when to close and grieve 

–all these years reflected in the night 
your face gives off, clouded over 
with glass, holding on, sleepless 

–arrive unexpected! grown over 
with weeds, with the hidden mountainside 
around your shoulders and emptiness. 

​
Author Bio:
Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poetry has appeared in the Partisan Review, The New Yorker and elsewhere.

It's been 
ten years now 
you can shut 
the f&#* up 
we've made 
it this far 
like it or not 
we're compatible

Human beings
are f&%*#d
I know it's terrible
but it's true 
we're not a 
perfect couple
a disagreement
doesn't have 
to be fatal

When it comes
to the bickering
I'm presented
with three options

You're never 
coming back 
like a Jew 
in the diaspora

Personal affairs
reach that moron
also known as 
your brother

The moron
approaches me 
making a move 
that results in the 
loss of my temper

As a convicted
criminal I'm
perceived as 
the antagonist
losing you 
wasn't bad enough
now I have to part
with my freedom

This is why 
even the slightest
victory over
anything at all 
makes me feel 
like I've conquered
the entirety of 
Europe


Author Bio:
Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburg, using words instead of violence to mitigate the suffering of life in a callous world of redundancy. His primary goal is to help other people. He considers poetry to be a form of philanthropy. When he is not writing, he is volunteering at the Light of Life Homeless Shelter on a weekly basis. If you appreciate the man's work, please check out his book, F.D.A. Approved Poetry, available on Amazon. 

Mother,
 
on our way to Duluth we ate
mangoes and white rice stained by
soy sauce. Nearly there, I could
barely contain my excitement about
the seagulls. I had never been so
close to the water before. There was
something magical about that seaport city.
I could see the water from the car
window, and every pore in my body ached
for submersion. It was a pre-baptism.
 
Mother,
 
in Duluth, we stopped at a restaurant
to eat “Chinese food.” My mouth
watered at the thought of broccoli and
white rice dipped in soy sauce.  You told the
waitress to split one portion for us to share.
I smiled saying I didn’t eat much. It was
before illness raped my body. Health was
a petty thing then.
 
Mother,
 
your husband had to move the car to
avoid a parking ticket, and he
cursed getting up from the table.
It was then you gave me the only
relationship advice you had:
Never marry a man like him. I said
nothing, kept my eyes lowered to
the paper Chinese zodiac placemats--
the years of the Rooster.
 
Mother,
 
in Duluth you asked why all the
license plates said Minnesota when we
were in Duluth. I could not stop
laughing.  But I would have never been able
to point out the Philippine province
​Pangasinan on a map—the place where you
grew up; or said those clustered islands
held 81 provinces. My geography was
lacking. That is to say, American.
 
Mother,
 
I was a lanky preteen then. 12 years old,
I started wearing obnoxious colored training
bras you bought for me. In the photos,
I was a frail thing that still let you put
an arm around me as we posed. It was
before I was a teenager, ashamed to be your
daughter.
 
Now I think about the time I wandered off
to the water during another martial spat
the hotel room was too small to contain.
I think about our last day in Duluth, when
we went to the shoreline and let the tide curl
between our toes. You said it was just like
the Philippines, home. But this is America,
I said, and you fell silent. I think about one day
driving back to the water, crawling into its
depths—hoping that the current could somehow
wipe clean transgressions, and cure all the hurt
in the world.
 
 
Author Bio:
Tonya Eberhard recently graduated from the University of Missouri. She currently lives in Minnesota. Her work has appeared in Fauna Quarterly, Algebra of Owls, The Commonline Journal, Dirty Chai, Yellow Chair Review, Open Minds Quarterly, and many others.

To Roy LaGrone’s young daughter
 
This is a lonely bachelor’s advice. Of course.
Consider the world’s letters in unsinged bales.
Prepare her novice heart to taste the mails.
Tell her to memorize the missives
before setting the bonfires. Burn the majority
like dead spring leaves. Then watch the breeze –
The smoke. The plumes. Air the study rooms
between making rebuttals. Take second breaths
between lick and stamp. Sigh. Value                  
letters, kindness and kindling. Post
hoping to receive fewer back. I myself receive
too many offering the best advice
I already know to give myself:
Dear Little Miss LaGrone. Against probability –
Do not cast the pearls before swine
And always believe against possibility
in time.


Author Bio:
Darryl Lorenzo Wellington is a poet living in Santa Fe, NM, and his poetry has appeared in Boston Review, Chiron Review, Pedestal, Turtle Island Quarterly, and Matter Poetry, among other places. He is also a journalist whose articles address race, class, and poverty issues. He likes -- maybe overly ambitiously -- to think he is passably talented as an actor.

There lies, in between, so much that is left unseen.
This matter between my ears.
This matter behind my eyes.
This internal hell trapped by the confines of my skull.
Yet nicely covered so the world doesn’t see.
A collection of broken pieces.
#mosaic

I look in the mirror but I am unable to see.
What happened to me?
Where am I?
Who am I?
When will I return?
Who is the person behind my eyes?
I am just a shell.
I am not what you see.
There is so much more to me.
#blind

There are sounds all around me, but I am unable to hear.
Why are they not aware?
I’m silently screaming.
I open my mouth but no words escape.
The voice you could hear is silenced by the voice within.
What you tell me is passed through a filter of self hate.
Everything seems so loud.
The traffic as I approach the street.
The dog panting after a run outside.
This internal hell makes even the silence seem loud.
#mutenotdeaf

Incessant running but never a race won.
Is success possible?
I move about in a hectic way.
I spend so much time running from myself.
Trying to escape myself, to break free from me.
It’s the only way to stay alive.
Time is not in my favor.
The statistics are not promising.
#outoftime

A one person game of hide and seek.
To remain hidden but never sought.
Will they ever ask?
Do they want to find me?
Do they notice I am missing?
I stay out of sight.
I remove myself.
It is only a matter of time.
Somebody will eventually notice that I am missing.
Or will they?
They don’t ask.
They must not care.
My life does not matter.
Physically present but a million miles away.
#herebutnothere

An emotional state that can not be recovered.
An intuitive understanding of destruction.
Will I ever be able to find my way?
Can the lost be found?
Can what has been destroyed be rebuilt?
Is there hope?
I am confused as much as I confuse others.
Will it ever be easy to understand?
Will I ever perceive the pain as real?
Will anybody ever understand me?
Will I ever perceive the intended meaning of this hell?
To keep fighting,
can the battle be won?
I may win a fight but I can’t help but wonder, am I losing the battle?
#lost


Author Bio:
Rachel Van Deusen is surviving with a mental illness and still searching to find a way she can not just survive but thrive. Writing helps is one of her main outlets. The writing of others have helped her to feel less alone during difficult times. She hopes hers may do the same.