Neglect.

A word so cold,

that it pierces my soul,

 —and takes hold.

Tears bleed down my cheeks

    —Oh how I wish it were not so!

Ally Hensley, acclaimed writer, speaker, and global MRKH advocate, has announced the launch of her debut memoir, VAGINA UNCENSORED: A Memoir of Missing Parts.

Combining raw honesty and unflinching courage, the book sees Hensley delve into the depths of her personal experience with Mayer-Rokitansky-Küster-Hauser Syndrome (MRKH), a rare congenital condition that affects over 10,000 British women, interrupting the development of the female reproductive system, causing the vagina and uterus to be underdeveloped or absent.

We were honoured to interview Serena about her second poetry collection 'Tea for the Wicked’, discussing her writing process, her healing journey through poetry, the challenges she faced during the process and advice for new poets.

It had started as a sunny day but the further north we got it became mistier and greyer and I felt more at peace, though I had the kind of trepidation in my stomach when you know that you’re doing something monumental.

I glanced anxiously at my suitcase in the luggage rack, making sure it was still there. Making sure he was still there. We were finally taking dad back home.

I stand before you now. . .

We are two poets. . .

Will you let me be?

Will you accept my world as it is?

I've only just wished for a second chance. . .

mud & slush spill

into my lowas

rifle slung, on my back

I thought that if I were a better person, then maybe things would go better for me.

I thought that if I were a better person, then maybe I’d be happy.

I don’t know what I want anymore.

Katie Cecilia is a poet and mental health advocate with a strong passion for helping others. Through her authentic and heartfelt writing, she explores themes of healing, self-care, reflection, and self-discovery.

We were honoured to speak with Katie ahead of the launch of her book, ‘Growing’, to discuss her journey as a writer, her process of healing and self-discovery, and her advice for up-and-coming poets.

mmm, her

nails digging

into my back

but no one’s

here

the sun

won’t peak

Once again Diderot's beautiful ruin stands

in the corner of my mind,

the great book-city he described in Les Bijoux Indiscrets.

I looked at myself 

up close and personal 

in a pink heart shaped mirror 

from Urban Outfitters. 

I had never done this before 

You turned 5, and I have still partially forgotten the moment you came into the world. 5 years too late to meet the precious woman you were named after. You see, you were given your time to greet the world on the same day that we lost her. Your great grandmother. I can only think she was watching over us that day.

They said it would be easy,

a simple walk in the park.

But I knew better,

with each step came a pounding in my head,

a weight around my arms,

a vice around my throat.

"Hello best friend!"

Scribbled on the first line,

your name,

carried in my heart,

and written on every page.

I have gotten used to invisible hands.

They held my gaze, whispered to me.

Like a phantom lover, they mesmerized me.

It has only been a short time since they touched me,

And yet I am certain I can feel them now.

I do not want to—I do.

I hear the roaring laughter of the winds as it crawls into my

Veins of fear.

What could possibly be left of the lingering thoughts of going

Somewhere far away in the Pacific ocean

Where no human feet are traced

It often needs a trigger warning, yet it happens every day. Often in homes, behind closed doors, sibling to sibling is the most common method - as heart breaking as that is to hear, it’s completely true. I suffered more than once with being victimised. But not at home, at school. A close school friend of mine, let’s call her Lara - for data protection reasons, abused me.

Following the successful launch of her second published poetry book, Wings Unfurled, we were overjoyed to speak with poet and author Libby Jenner about her poetry inspiration, writing process, and how poetry has been a powerful tool to help her with mental health and to heal traumas.

Do you know what it was/is to be in love? It was that spot in the woods by the park that is always filled with sunlight. The spot with the fairy garden that I took them to before they asked me to date them, like really date them. It was warmth and soup broth, it was a bath in some ways but not others. It is straining my eyes because I’m trying to peer into a wolf’s den or peering out of a cave and not straining my eyes because it’s night already. It is feeling like I was slapped in the face, and then wishing I had actually been slapped in the face because physical wounds are tangible. It is sobbing so hard I shake in my parked car the day after, before work, alone.

I forget myself in the melancholy of times,

where the arrows are like scissors

When She looked at the dragon, it seemed to her like air dissolved in hopes, blue, blue, shimmering like a garland and this attracted, like a moth to the radiance…

This Modern Struggle Magazine had the honour of speaking with artist and writer Irina Tall and sharing her unique artwork.

She shares her artistic journey, her creative process, the powerful meanings behind her work and the way that art can inspire and influence.

Thank you so much to Irina for taking the time to share her creativity and insights with us.

This Modern Struggle Magazine had the absolute privilege of speaking with artist Aleena Sharif and sharing her inspirational artwork.

She shares her artistic journey, her creative process, and how the power of painting the nude female form helps to promote body confidence and self-love for herself and other women.

Thank you so much to Aleena for creating representative pieces and a safe space to share nude paintings.

sweet chamomile tea

now made bitter with the

mint leaves

tricked by the sweet scent i

slowly mix them in

Life is hard but so am I

I won’t give up, I will not die,

And even when my brain goes mad

I’ll carry on, I won’t be sad.

Darkness seems to follow me a lot… a shadow that’s present, even when the light shines through, it never seems to absorb it at all. Darkness is like daylight savings; it starts off and ends in darkness. That hour back barely makes any difference at all. I walk around with my eyes open, but I mind as well walk around with them closed; because at least I know the doors are shut and nobody can see into them.

When I was in my 20s, I used to dislike the idea of reaching 30. I always associated being 30 with being old (I am sorry to anyone I have hurt by saying this!)

However, now that I am in my 30s, as much as I wish I were in my 20s, I do think there is a lot of power in this new decade of my life. When I was 28-29 years old, I used to have conversations with people who were already in their 30s about how I should approach this new phase of my life.

A few things I was told are that the 30s are the most beautiful years of a woman’s life: she is confident, unapologetic, and daring.

Holidays, for me, consist of finding excuses.

An example of this is at a Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner, when I inevitably get restless from sitting at the table with my family, and start offering to take people’s dirty dishes to the kitchen for a reason to move around. This is met with a yes or a no and usually a genuine ‘thank you’, my real motive concealed under the guise of being considerate. A less polite excuse I utilize is going to the bathroom for ten minutes so I have a break from socializing and conversation. While it is tedious to be constantly looking for these ‘outs’, I find that they are the only way to preserve my sanity.

Holidays are, in short, a lot.

Never in a million years did I think I would be a single dad.

As my first Christmas co-parenting approaches, I can’t help thinking that this isn’t how I imagined my life to be, how things don’t always turn out the way you expect when you start a family.

We are brought up with the notion that it’s always better for children to be part of the traditional family with both parents than each alone. Because it was imprinted into me that coming from a broken home was so difficult for children growing up, I have personally really struggled with the feeling that I have failed my daughter because her mom and I are no longer together.

Sometimes I think of grief like an old woollen jumper. It’s the knitwear you fold at the bottom of your drawer, only getting it out on the coldest of days or in the very midst of winter.  

Sometimes you only wear it on Christmas day, or on a special date that no one else celebrates.

Once it’s enveloped you, you fold it away again, smoothing down the fabric with your fingers in a private ritual, like the most sacred of things.