Punk Monk Press/Magazine

My Bully’s Name is Stephanie In kindergarten I tried to change my name to Kelly and I became best friends with Stephanie who didn’t try to change her name but never told me I was weird and we laughed on the playground and played with our dolls and learned how to spell and dream. In second grade Stephanie decided to be friends with Brittany instead and no one ever told me but I figured it out when they laughed at me at recess and made excuses to keep me from playing with them and I tried so hard not to cry until I got home. In middle school they played sports together but I found solace in books because maybe books wouldn’t make me feel so empty inside. In high school Stephanie nearly starved herself to death and I wished we could have been friends again so she’d know that I spent half my day with my face in the toilet because I couldn’t control myself the way I assumed that she could and it never occurred to me that she hated existence just as much as I did. In college I tried to forge...

Her I was raised to follow the path that they said was carved into the ground before I was born. But I see the world through eyes too young to move forward the way they want me to. The ones who raised me believe that loving hearts regardless of their parts makes me subhuman. They only love the version of me that existed before I became the skeleton who came out of her own closet. I was raised to be their perfect Christian daughter. Now, there is not much left of this skeleton to salvage, but somewhere in this timeline there is a version of me that follows the path she chooses, so I will live for her. --Elysia Goodson

My Blood is Red     Dad said it was the majesty of being a woman Bleeding once a month A lifeforce expelling from my body The humiliation of scarlet stained underwear The blood trickling down my inner thigh Doubled over in a pain I must hide Feel that potential life flow from between my legs Why is it so disgusting? Why is there so much stigma? Centuries of shame for women The hidden fact of our lives Whisper about it, don’t really talk about it Pretend we don’t bleed Bleed from where he always wants to go On tv our blood is blue I don’t know about you, but my blood is red A thick release proving I can do what he cannot I can create life, my body is full of possibility Every month another chance And every month I flush it away Men say that the process is repulsive Though a secret fetish for some The one area of my body that a man does not control (yet) There is no control between my legs Where I bleed red once a month --Elizabeth Rosell

club loving queer love is in the club not in lips or not there touches but in the hazy smoke and sequins shining signals like lighthouses I’m here I’m here I’m here existing free past eight and under 20, drinking life from glitter food trucks and neon nine inch heels, the love in the air sinks deep in the pockets of too-loose pants and too-soon tender, like happy hour in the bass line of a song that is supposed to have more words, yelling and not being heard but not caring, the man with the cigarette in the brick-walled corner like staring like watching the youth but no blame is there, even boredom, even the astro-turf asks less questions than this, and when all answers are found, the brightest smile comes from the twink in tiny shorts on that stage where we found first life in the night. --T.L. Riddle

Monotone Noa likes to refer to people by their most prominent features, the ones she knows they’ll be insecure about. Never their names. It’s  Bald Spot , or  Teeth , or  Eyebrow s. It’s from high school, according to her. From being called  Flat Chest  for years herself. She’s really good at it. Finds the exact thing a person hates about themselves.  When we fight and she calls me Monotone for the first time, I ask her about it.  What the hell is wrong with you?  Why do you do that? Don’t deflect , she fires back.  You’re manipulating the conversation . She’s right, because the fight was about how I left her alone in the club bathroom when we went out and she had to throw up and because I didn’t hold her hair back she got vomit all over her hair and a friend joked about how she smelled. On the way back on the train she gave me the silent treatment. Except for the few times she let me hold a water bottle in front of her face so she could...

I Was A Child  The day I got the shitty diagnosis, three letters: IBS, I remember sitting, fidgeting, being told it was because I had anxiety,  because of my longer, lingering  diagnosis of Dyspraxia. I hadn't realised anxiety could permanently fuck your body up something chronic-or that they  would make my future periods  bloody hard.  So I had these diagnoses, and I had anxiety.  (All that aside, I was also getting bullied). And I was a child.  I was eleven.  --Lydia Pearson