In Sickness and in Health

In Sickness and in Health

In Sickness and in Health by Kristi Jeansonne

I remember staring at him from across the room wondering how I could love him more than he loved me. How could any God in this universe allow that? I remember how I unzipped my chest and took out my bloody, naïve heart and handed it to him… while he lounged on the sofa and counted ceiling tiles.

My 20-year-old self needed a prince, a knight, or at least a man who just would tell me how enchanting I was. I wanted him to burn down buildings and then walk through the fire to rescue me. I wanted him to see me in slow motion… to be his muse and his motivation for breathing. He should shed his masculinity but still, be a man. I thought I needed him to take me to rooftops and compare my eyes to stare. Or tell me that all the magic in the world is contained in the small space found between his palms and mine.

Love was matching tattoos and anniversaries of trivial firsts. Love was catching me off guard, taking my picture, and remembering me this young forever. Love was walking away just to feel the crushing devastation of missing each other.

I didn’t get that love. I didn’t get that man.

I discovered that love isn’t made of expectations or time lines. Love isn’t a cheap postcard.
Love isn’t a heart….. love is a backbone.

Instead, I got a man who sat near my hospital bed counting the seconds until I woke. A man who could list all my medications like ingredients in a recipe. A man who knows I am broken but never tries to fix me; only discovers a more delicate way to hold me. A man who isn’t afraid of words like cancer or recurrence because we take each day as its own. One day at a time… sometimes one minute at a time.

What I got was a man who lets me unfold myself into his arms when I’m having a bad day and celebrates the major achievement of having a good day. And I realized that rooftops and sad songs and romantic ideals Do Not Matter.

All the magic in the world is really contained in his hands as they hold my face and he looks into my tired eyes to whisper, “It’s you and me.”

The Beginning of Ugly

Written by Kristi Jeansonne

Here I am. I sit here in the dark curtains drawn together tightly with the edges tacked with clear plastic pins shoved almost horizontally into the drywall. I run to lock my door and in a panic; I tuck a blanket into the tiny gap under the door. No light is to breakthrough.

The pain is coming. Sitting on the floor isn’t enough. I must be more hidden, more isolated. I need to crawl into the closet and shut the door behind me. My back is against the wall and my head in my hands. This is where the pain comes. This is where the pain lives…. here in my hands.

I remember the first time I thought about taking my own life. I was 8 years old and under my bed, at the bottom of the heavy bedpost, I carved ‘I want to die.’

The words were simplistic; the writing was primitive, and mostly, the statement was powerful. I had no concept of death and dying, of beating hearts or failing organs. I had no conceptual ideas of heaven and hell. I didn’t realize the extreme permanence of making my words into actions. What I did know is that dying meant disappearing. And above all, I wanted to vanish.

I can’t remember the first time I was insulted or the first time I was hit. But I do know where ugly begins. I know where ugly lives, right here in the palms of my hands.

I used to feel heartbroken until I realized that my heart was fine. It’s my mind that’s broken. In this closet, in this darkness, I begin to release the victim inside of me. victim. victim. victim. victim. ugly. ugly. ugly. The words must be said to begin letting go. Say the words with mevictim. ugly. Repeat the word, write the word, stare at the word. The more you say it, the more you see it, the more foreign it feels.

Cradling back and forth, I can think. I’m unable to hear or see. All is numb except for the intense pain in the pit of my gut. The pain crawls from the center of me, up through my aching heart and erupts out through my eyes. The pain carries my memories through this well-worn path.

The wave of emotion knocks me down and washes over me. This closet is like the ocean. I’m drowning in this salty, polluted water while the broken, sandy ground below me does little to help. My body is aching, and my soul is crying out to return to dry land. I can do this: I can save myself. I can stand up and save myself from drowning. Then, I manage to pull myself up and gasp for air.

Breathe. Focus. Walk three steps. Collapse.

Falling onto the wooden floor grasping at splinters and following the worn-in, destructive path of hard times. This is who I am. A broken person, sick with some sort of mental pain. Violently drunk with desperation, my eyelids crush together to force out tears and mildly ease my blurred vision.

I see a glass atop my desk. In a reversed-crippled fashion, I stumble upwards to tower over my cluttered belongings. In one massive sweep, I clear all from my sight, revealing an ivory desktop smeared with ink and makeup stains.

I needed to hear the crash. I took a breath of relief as I felt some anxiety waning. With the tears still streaming, I flash over to the mess below, neighboring my bare feet.

With zero hesitation, I fall to my knees and dig my palms into the millions of shards of glass. My hands and mind all ache with relief.

The sight of blood soothes my mental state as if I tricked myself into believing this was why I was flooding myself in tears in the first place. With trembling fingers, I scoop the salty puddles from between my lips. I prop my limp bag of blood and bones against the wall and begin to feel peace.

It’s as if I was at war with my imaginary self and reluctantly I won.
I curl my blood-soaked fingers together and tighten my fist. It’ll soon be time for my hands to open wide and expose this pain once again.

Kristi Jeansonne

Kristi is a mother of two, a two time cancer survivor, and no-nonsense kind of gal from Lafayette, Louisiana. She is an avid coffee drinker, counts frequent eye rolling as cardio, and loves a comfy cardigan.

She also loves to write about deeply personal experiences and uses writing as therapy. If you’d like to read more writing, you can check out her Instagram page

This site contains affiliate links to products. We may receive a commission for purchases made through these links. For more information, see my disclosures here.

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Fire and Light

Fire and Light

Fire and Light, poems by Christina Adepoju


Fire By Christina Adepoju

You’ve been burning fire for far too long, my dear
Aren’t you afraid of what this will do?
What you thought would keep the hurt out
Is growing inside while slowly killing you

Is your heart not scorched by those raging flames
You feel compelled to emit lately?
Does your skin not recoil in disgust and fear
When being kissed by a thousand suns daily?

Has the smoke clouded your wild eyes
To create the appearance of illusions?
Or did you truly destroy every good thing
As your final act of retribution?

Your birthright is not this agony you bear
But you feel like that’s all you’ll ever know
You’ll find the strength to quench your flames
And plant new seeds to help you grow

Remove those ashes that colored your starry eyes
So you can walk to your rightful place
Because when a true queen has fallen down
She rises again with dignity and grace


Light By Christina Adepoju

I hope I’ll be bold enough one day
To share my secrets and share my pain
So that I will no longer feel heavy
Maybe the day I share my pain
Is the day the sea will hold my hand
Not to punish me but to drown my sorrows
And wash the old away
One day, I’ll arise anew and let go of the sea’s hand
So that I can walk with Happiness instead
Make this heart of stone soft-river its way to freedom
Because all I dream to be is light

Meet the Fire and Light poet:

<strong>Christina Adepoju</strong>
Christina Adepoju

My name is Christina and I’m a native of Florida. When I’m not writing, you can catch me reading some of my favorite books, binge-watching Netflix or practicing my calligraphy.

I’ve been writing since I was 11 years old and my love for it has only expanded as I’ve grown over the years. Right now, writing is just a fun hobby for me, but I would love to publish my own poetry book one day. You can follow me @wordsofawhisperer.

This site contains affiliate links to products. We may receive a commission for purchases made through these links. For more information, see my disclosures here.

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Another Night

Another Night

Another Night by Clyde Borg

Another Night

Awake once more.
Shuddering, frightened,
Another distressing eve.
Only a stuttering prayer
Repeated over and over
Can ease the fear,
And let me rest.

<strong>Clyde Borg</strong>
Clyde Borg

Born February 17, 1935 at New York, New York. BA and MA from Seton Hall University, So. Orange, NJ.

Served as a high school teacher and administrator for thirty-eight years. Retired and work part time in adult education and as a mentor to new teachers. Married with six children and seven grandchildren.

Have been writing poetry and nonfiction since 1998.

This site contains affiliate links to products. We may receive a commission for purchases made through these links. For more information, see my disclosures here.


Submission Guidelines for Website Features – Open for 2020

The below form is for Website Features only. Please see our Print Submission page to submit for the next printed anthology.

  1. Poetry Magazine Submissions must be your own original work, and you must submit your real full name with your submission. We will not accept social media names instead of your real name.
  2. We will not accept submissions with spelling errors and grammar mistakes. Writing tools are available to help with this. Do your research. Eve Poetry is an affiliate of ProWritingAid and Grammarly. Products we recommend and use ourselves.
  3. Include a title for your piece.
  4. Copy/paste your poem or story into the submission form’s comment box.
  5. You’ll receive an email within two weeks if we select your submission.
  6. Writers can submit two pieces per month for consideration. We will delete additional poems or stories. Writer won’t be featured in back-to-back months. If we select you for a feature, there is a two-month wait period to be featured again.
  7. When accepted, writers provide a bio and author photo. However, photos are not mandatory.
  8. We don’t accept art work with poetry/short stories. Eve Poetry Magazine chooses the art to pair with each written feature. Art features are a separate submission category.
  9. Participants must read the submission disclaimer.

Granny Hands

Granny Hands

Granny Hands by Laura Mackennon

Granny Hands

My hands have been wrinkled
since before I was born.
A baby holding all of history
before I could even hold up
my head.

Palms of love and hate and deserts
and forests. of Churches and oceans and avenues.
of pastel buildings stained by the sun. of revolution. of
house plants and electrical storms. of murder and theatrics and cartwheels
on wet concrete. of presidents and politicians and promises and
soft fruit. of terror and garden centers and over-sized newspapers.
of high tides and low-lives.

But this is a poem
so this isn’t really about
my hands.
it’s about other things. all things, really.
All things born in us and of us and
everything that we are and contain and will be.
and can be.

Despite their worldliness, I wish they were smooth.
youthful, playful, full of
promise. Not topography. Trekking ground for the brave.

Sometimes I sleep in creamy gloves. The damp hold
reminds me of when I was a newt or slug or low-bellied lizard.
In the morning these past lives too are marked on my
ragged hands.
And as I crunch and un-crinkle them
I smile to myself.

They say the eyes are the window to the soul but
really the hands are the tell.
so I bunch them down, deep into my pockets, and
keep my secrets still.

The Fear by Laura Mackennon

Ask more questions than
you answer,
and I can, until
the purple stains my teeth.

Know me, manically. Here
is everything in a

Hide in the morning,
a tent of tainted sheets.
Warm my bones
and tell me I am loved.

<strong>Laura Mackennon</strong>
Laura Mackennon

Laura Mackennon writes poetry to capture that open-field feeling within a painfully-specific moment. She hopes it makes you say things like: “oh”, “ummm” and “eh?”.

Lawyer by day and a poet by night, she was born and raised in London but has designs to relocate somewhere mountainous and romantic.

She is currently working on her first anthology entitled High tides and lowlifes.

This site contains affiliate links to products. We may receive a commission for purchases made through these links. For more information, see my disclosures here.

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This keyboard depicts the poem Absence

Absence by Natasha Okwuchi

Absence makes the heart grow fonder
But not in my case
Absence only made my feelings fade

I remember some time ago
When the thought of you made me smile
But that hasn’t happened in a while

I let myself think that we could get closer
But now I think
Your absence is for the better

I’ll admit that I missed you
And a whole lot at that
But from this moment on, I just can’t

You were my favorite
And so was our friendship
But now I’m over it

<strong>Natasha Okwuchi</strong>
Natasha Okwuchi

I’m a 14-year-old (mixed race) citizen of Nigeria that. Apart from writing, enjoys reading and watching anime. 

Writing, for me, is fun yet serious. I really enjoy it and I’m hoping to complete a whole novel and get it published, kick-starting my future career. 

As of now, my Instagram account is the only serious showcase of my work, but it presently contains only poems.

This site contains affiliate links to products. We may receive a commission for purchases made through these links. For more information, see my disclosures here.

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Rosie by Tanya Kochar

He came home feeling exhausted, as if someone extracted vim and vigour out of his youthful enthusiasm.

“How long would I be able to hide her?” his mind whispered.

His profound thought bubble ruptured as soon as he heard her voice! He moved silently towards the bathroom and began to peep through the door gap.

There she was, lying on the floor. Struggling all by herself to save her weary half body.

She saw him having a peek at her, and just then she shouted, “How could you do this to someone? You have no rights to treat me like this!”

Her voice expressed lividness just like her bruised half body.

“I bought you. I can use you, cut you,” he replied.

She looked at him with wrath as he blabbered.

“I can smell you, touch you.” He continued to speak as he moved towards her.

She looked away from his disgust.

“Save me, I’ll melt in you, or crush me and kill me,” she begged.

He twisted the tap knob and left the premises.

The water came gushing out, touching her body. She started to dissolve into the speeding water and she moved out swiftly through the floor drain.

Her smell was hard to diminish, just like she said.

Rosie Soap, with extra rose petal fragrance.

<strong>Tanya Kochar</strong>
Tanya Kochar

I am commonly known as the woman with a quill.
Who lives in the paradise of tales.
Inhaling imaginations.
Creativity is what I exhale.

I am a writer by passion and a brand strategist by choice. Successfully striking a balance between sipping wine and deadlines! I’m based out of Mumbai, commonly known as the “city of dreams.”  Thereby, living the dream of bringing all my ideas into words and finally converting them into realities.

Writing has always been my serious passion. Be it for brands or just a casual fictional write up for open mics across Mumbai’s storytelling and poetry communities.

Want to know more about my life?
Here’s me Instagram handle – @the_sinskaari
Happy sneak peak!

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Outshine the Night

Outshine the Night

Outshine the Night by Deevesh Ramphul

Outshine the Night

Street light, warring against the darkness of the night, don’t you get tired watching it all get left behind? You watch the cars pass by, though some might stop by temporarily, you’ve witnessed them all leaving.

How can you stand tall after all that you’ve been bearing? The downpours and the storms might have dimmed your light, then how did you not forget your purpose in life?

Fighting against the coldness of starless nights, you have grown dark too, why are you no longer true? Street light, now gone berserk, switching off from time to time, letting the bad overshadow the good, letting what you were fighting against get over you.

It all started making sense again, you turn into your nightmares when you have lived them, and just as such the petals mourn into the soil, and the heart into a rusted coil, swinging between taking the jump or letting go. Is it worth it all, the risks of being caged or a follower of a ruthless leader?

Sights of how deceiving the landscape can steal the traveler’s passion of seeking more, taking the faith away from the one she inspired. Roaming around, the crashing of the spheres surfaced a looming feeling, sat by the edge I watched my world crumbling, down went my castle floating in that azure sky, and so my loyalty to a double-edged lover.

The love water was falling changed to a dagger and here it splattered into bits which could never be mended back again, some lost within the eyes of the tormentor.

Seeker of feelings soon sought vague highs, the masterpieces carved within himself being a dreary reminder, gone they were, turned to nostalgia of a time where truth reigned and rainbows shone.

Love, like art, must be free, but here I am paying the debts of the ones who couldn’t keep it real.

<strong>Deevesh Ramphul</strong>
Deevesh Ramphul

I am Deevesh Ramphul from Mauritius. I am currently a student and aspire to be a writer.

I already have started working on my first book. My story is hidden within the layers of the simplicity of entangled meanings. Read through the lines and unravel the mysteries of my cataclysmic heart. I also have a blog online:

This site contains affiliate links to products. We may receive a commission for purchases made through these links. For more information, see my disclosures here.

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Poetry by Sanjana Krishnan

Poetry by Sanjana Krishnan


Poetry by Sanjana Krishnan

December storms raging my bones
Glaciers packed into my marrowed spaces

Ankles buckling like they’re standing beneath the
Weight of snow on pine trees
This frosty earth with its dipping moon
Blanketed under sculptures of glass and ice
Like my frozen veins
Waiting to be thawed out of these arctic days
Now with everything at a standstill
I exhale, weaving crystals from my breath
Forlorn, I seek warmer climates
To break free of this eternal doom
But the swallows, they only surface
When spring is in bloom
This chilly night I lie in wait so I can soar
So I can scrape the tallest pines
So I can free its branches of this binding cold
Just like I can free my veins
Of these blade-like oars


Poetry by Sanjana Krishnan

You touch me like these silver shadows
bouncing off moonbeams
contact high
just like the Polaroid I kept
tucked away in the back pocket
of my blue jeans
knowing you’ll be safest
here between the seams
this isn’t a puppy sort of love
for you turn my world
lighting up the skies within me

<strong>Sanjana Krishnan</strong>
Sanjana Krishnan

I’m from India, but I’ve been living in Buffalo, NY for the past decade.

I’m in medical school and I’ve been writing poetry for a few years now, just slowly putting them out there. It’s great to have a creative outlet amidst all the studying and test-taking. They keep me in a good head space.

I’ve started to try and make something of my poetry now, I’ve written 106 poems to date, and one of them is published in Riza Press. I definitely plan on putting together a little book when I find a little down time. I’m also a painter and have about 10 oil on canvas pieces.

I publish all of my poems on Instagram, where you can find my account @versificationpoetry

This site contains affiliate links to products. We may receive a commission for purchases made through these links. For more information, see my disclosures here.

Reality Check

Reality Check

Reality Check by Marie Anaïs Tessa L’Etang

I still remember as if it was yesterday
I was playing on the streets along with all the children in the neighbourhood
Little ones, the teens and even some of the adults
Street football was the one everyone loved
It was like a generation match, youngsters versus the adults
Everyone would be present for the street games

Reality check, 21st century…
Streets are for cars only
Games are only virtual
Chatting means social media
Acceptance means be someone else on the internet
Parents no longer know their kids, they only know work
Kids feel adopted by their babysitters

Video games, video calls, video conferences
Our lives resume to technology
Robots created to replace humans
Yet humans are turning to robots bending to each new ‘update’

<strong>Marie Anaïs Tessa L'Etang </strong>
Marie Anaïs Tessa L’Etang

I am from Mauritius but grew up in the Caribbean. My main hobbies would be reading and writing.

Writing has always been a big part of me since I was 8 when I won my first poetry writing competition, and ever since I never stopped writing. Writing is a crucial part of my day and is more than just a hobby for me.
My instagram is anais.tessa

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Lost Love

Lost Love

Lost Love by Natalia Imran

Even if we break apart
Remember, you’ll always be in my heart

Even if you call me a loser
Remember my love, I lost to you

Even if you say I’m broken
Remember, I broke my wall for you

Even if you say I’m the acid to your rain,
Remember, no love from you I gained

Even if you say I’m ugly,
Remember, once upon a time, this face, you loved

Even if you call me an old soul
Remember, old souls loved the most

Even if you said it hasn’t been your day, your week or your year
Remember, I was there for you

Even if you couldn’t see what I saw
Remember, I was your mirror and made you see what I saw

Natalia Imran

Hi, I’m Natalia from Pakistan. I have a few hobbies that I’m committed to and they are reading, writing and drawing. I am currently a student of arts.

Writing may not be my one focus but it’s not a hobby either, for me it’s a passion. I strive to have a book published one day and hope that it’d sell right off the shelves.

You can follow me on Instagram: @absolute_felicity

This post contains affiliate links. An affiliate link means I may earn advertising/referral fees if you make a purchase through my link, with no extra cost to you. It helps to keep this little magazine afloat. Thanks for your support. Read full disclosure here.

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