In one night

Flashing red light

No wasn’t no

I was all alone

I was engraved

My life was forever changed

I missed core memories

Just because all I could do was freeze

Why did I deserve this?

I asked a million times

I was in silence

With my quiet cries

I was engraved

My life forever changed

Is there any good to this?

Internally feeling ashamed

-Tristyn

The post “Engraved” by Tristyn appeared first on Survivors.org.

Then, in July, I was sexually assaulted while drunk, and I was thrust into a world I wasn’t prepared for. While the assault was deeply traumatic, I was also forced to navigate accessing health care while in crisis.

By the time I finally got him out of the AirBnB I was staying in for the summer, I was in complete shock. I paced around the apartment for a bit, cleaning up the kitchen, the bathroom, before I finally decided I needed help.

I had heard of a popular hotline for sexual violence victims, and I mustered up the courage to call. A robotic voice said something to me that I couldn’t understand, and when I finally connected through to a person and I told them what city I was in, they said they couldn’t help me. I had been connected to a crisis center in my hometown because of my area code. I had muttered the words “I think I was r*ped” for the first time, and for nothing.

I guess it was this that motivated me to reach out to my friends and loved ones. The desperation at this point outweighed the (admittedly unreasonable) fear of burdening them. It was late at night, so the first few slept through my messages, but eventually one of my best friends living out of state was able to call me. She was kind and amazing and loving and gentle, and told me to find a hospital, and then managed to get ahold of our mutual best friend who had moved to the city with me.

There were three search results for “hospitals near me,” so I called the closest one, and once again had to mutter the same horrific phrase. I said that I wanted a test and an exam, and she said they could do that. I asked if they would call the cops, and she said that it would be up to me.

So I got off the phone, and my best friend and I ordered an Uber to the hospital.

But when we arrived, and I handed over my ID and insurance to the front desk, a nurse said that they had to call the police, that it was protocol, that I could refuse to make a report if I wanted but the cops had to come.

They had my ID and insurance information already, and I was too tired to fight, so I gave in, begrudgingly, not knowing that I was fully within my right to refuse.

They moved me through check in then instructed that my friend had to stay in the waiting room because of COVID protocols. I once again reluctantly accepted this, given the at-the-time ongoing restrictions from the pandemic.

I was led back into a room between the waiting room and emergency ward. I asked to use the bathroom and they led me back, not warning me that it could impact the evidence collection. When I returned to the front room, the door to the ER hallway remained open the entire time they conducted a routine intake exam, like checking blood pressure and temperature. Then I was left alone in the room, with the door still open, and the weight of the ordeal hit me again. I began crying again, loudly and breathlessly, and despite the fact that people passed and looked in, no one moved to close the door for privacy.

Eventually, after what seemed like forever but was probably no longer than 15 minutes, an older ER doctor entered the room, gave me tissues, and placed his hand on my shoulder. He apologized; he said it would be okay. I felt less alone again.

He led me back to a room at the other end of the hall; it was small and private, but definitely not an exam room. It had two chairs, a sink, and a TV hanging from the ceiling, just out of reach.

On the TV was an episode of Law & Order: SVU. But before I had a moment to process that, the doctor informed me that the police officer taking my report was on his way. After that, he said, I would have to take an Uber to another hospital; they didn’t do rape kits in the one I choose.

He left the room, without turning off the TV, and I was left with Mariska Hargitay’s voice filling the silence. I was in disbelief. It was almost funny; there I was, maybe only an hour after my assault, stuck in a hospital watching a show about sex crimes waiting on a cop I didn’t want to see. Then, I would have to pay for another Uber to a different hospital for the actual exam.

I don’t know how long I waited, but eventually a detective showed up; he was from the Special Victims Unit for the city I was in, and he turned off the TV as soon as he walked in, which was kind.

I don’t remember much of the conversation; I was reluctant to give details as I was not prepared to talk to the police about the experience. I’m not sure exactly what was said, but he spoke to me softly and ultimately informed me that he couldn’t press charges if I didn’t want to pursue anything. I don’t remember what I told him, and when he called me the next day to follow up and had several defining details wrong, like how I met the man who assaulted me. Maybe I had (still drunkenly) misinformed him, but it was a surprising and upsetting call regardless.

But overall he was as kind as I could have asked for from a cop I didn’t want to talk to.

When he eventually left, the doctor escorted me back through the waiting room and to the front door I had walked in through, instructing me to order an Uber to the hospital that was second on my initial list of hospital search results.

My friend saw this and followed me out, waiting with me in the front as I struggled to find an Uber so late at night with such bad reception. Eventually, we found a driver and ended up at the next hospital around 2 in the morning.

Upon check-in, I was once again informed that my friend would not be allowed to accompany me back. She waited in the waiting room once again as they took me back to another room.

This was another intake room, but it was nicer and more private–a luxury that the better funded hospital could afford. There was a comfortable reclining chair, and there was no SVU playing.

The nurse who led me back informed me that I would be meeting with a Victim’s Advocate before my exam, who would ask me how much I wanted to have done and could answer any questions I might have. She might have taken my vitals as well, but then I was once again left to wait for the next person to try to help me.

Texts from friends whom I had panic-messaged started flowing in during the night, and this helped occupy me for the wait. I couldn’t even estimate how long I waited, but eventually the advocate showed up and it was on to the next thing.

The advocate, Julia, explained her role to me, that she could help me access some sort of funds and could accompany me to appointments, that she would help me communicate with the nurse who conducted my exam, that it was something the city was supporting. She asked me what happened, asked for a sort of checklist of sex acts conducted during the assault, asked what I had to drink or if I had used drugs. She asked if I wanted photos for evidence, what parts I wanted swabbed, if I wanted to submit clothing. Then it was on to the medical stuff: was there birth control, was there concern for STIs, what injuries did I have? It was a dense and overwhelming conversation, and I only remember bits and pieces, but Julia remained calm and compassionate the whole time.

She eventually led me back to the exam room, and offered a blanket when she noticed how tightly I had my arms crossed. I thanked her for the offer and clarified that I wasn’t cold, and I’ll never forget her very gentle, “I know.” She did know; she had seen other people in this position before, lonely and scared and desperate for comfort. I felt understood and less alone, even if it was only for a minute.

When I entered the next exam room, I was shocked. It was small as well, with an almost scrub-room-like section at the front, with its own door. There was the standard exam table and stirrups, with the sterile paper drapes, and a ring light pointed directly between the stirrups.

I don’t remember if the examining nurse was in the room already by the time we entered, but I know the beginning was slow; we didn’t start with the exam, but instead there was another short dialogue about my expectations for the exam (no photos, where to expect evidence collection, what kind of medication I would be taking).

I was given a prophylactic for some STI–I don’t know what specifically–and a Plan B, along with sheets of paper about where to schedule follow up tests and other preventative prescriptions. Right as we were about to move on to the exam, someone came in requesting my keys; they said my friend in the waiting room wanted to leave and asked for them. (I later found out that they had asked her to leave to free up the space in the waiting room, but it would have been nice of them to tell me that rather than thinking she was just leaving me.)

Then came the part I feared most: the pelvic exam. Julia and the nurse left the room to give me the privacy to change into the gown, and when they returned, Julia stood beside my head and the nurse began the tests.

It started slowly and easily, with mouth swabs and hair samples, but I was still incredibly anxious; I was young, and it was my first pelvic exam ever. I was already in pain and vulnerable, and I was terrified.

The nurse was quick, and she only made me expose myself at the very end. It was painful, but she was quick and it was eventually over.

And then I put my clothes back on and took an Uber home as the sun rose, hours after I had been assaulted. I hadn’t slept, showered, brushed my hair or teeth–it was a new day and I was still in the pajamas I threw on once he was gone.

When I returned to my apartment, my friend had stripped the bed for me and remade it with new sheets. She saved the sheets in case I needed them for evidence. She slept on the floor with me and made sure I wasn’t alone. I am so incredibly grateful for her, and for all the other people who supported me through this.

I only survived this experience because of the kindness of my loved ones and the humanity of individuals working hard to fill in the gaps. But the healthcare system failed me.

My story is not unique: I am a white cisgender woman, living in one of the most populous cities in America at the time of my assault. I had three hospitals within 15 minutes from my apartment, and it still took at least 6 hours for me to obtain care. I can’t begin to imagine the struggle less privileged survivors face attempting to access care.

I’m not sure what the answer is; although there are resources in place to help survivors navigate accessing care, the solution is imperfect, especially since many are still in a deep state of shock when they’re seeking care. But with an already overworked medical system, educating all hospital staff how to respond to calls from sexual violence survivors seems too good to be true.

What I do know is that I wish it was okay to talk about r*pe kits. I wish someone would have warned me there might be a ring light in the exam room. I wish someone told me I was fully within my rights to not speak to the police. I wish it didn’t happen, but more than that I wish that it never happens to anyone again.

And the other thing I know is that I am so grateful for the humanity, kindness, and empathy I was shown through a seemingly unsurvivable night. I know that there was a glimmer of hope despite the pain.

And I hope that if I share my story, it might help future survivors access medical care with less pain than I did.

-Brooke Gallagher

The post “Care During Crisis: My R*pe Kit Experience” by Brooke Gallagher appeared first on Survivors.org.

What began as a consensual encounter unlike any other resulted in a life-changing incident that left me torn and physically ill. As I ran into his attached bathroom and locked the door, I hastily weighed my options. I considered going to the medical center to get examined but had no idea if the facility had rape collection kits. On station, I had no advocate to speak on behalf of my needs and protection, no jail to protect me from my rapist, and no knowledge of any present law enforcement personnel. I feared the medical professionals who would examine me and the small-town rumor mill in McMurdo that could leave me vulnerable to victim-blaming or falsehoods about my character.

As a result, the emotional wound ran the deepest of all, the humiliation and blood-letting too intense for me to survive. My brain quickly pulled the most generous disappearing trick it had at its disposal: Traumatic amnesia. Psychologist Jennifer Freyd describes traumatic amnesia as, “having been fundamentally cheated or betrayed by another person [which] may significantly influence the individual’s cognitive encoding of the experience of trauma, the degree to which the event is easily accessible to awareness, and the psychological as well as behavioral responses” (Freyd, 1994).

Several minutes following the assault, a great smoke filled that bathroom, dulling my senses and clouding over the damage inflicted upon my body. Opening the door, I was silent as I put my clothes back on, the haze blurring any words that could possibly sum up the moment.

I went back to work as a Steward the next morning, the same haze continuing to follow me. A coworker chewed me out because I hadn’t changed over multiple containers of food that were now sitting empty. After work, my boyfriend broke up with me. He told me that he felt awful about the day before and that he wanted to spend the rest of his assignment alone. I told him numbly that that was for the best. Two months later, just before I was due to leave McMurdo, he revealed that he “really wanted to see me” in his room and that he “really missed” me. I swear I could feel myself evaporating.

Throughout the subsequent winter season I spent in McMurdo, a big white cloud enveloped me. I drifted as I moved, no trauma weighing down my steps, and I flirted heavily online with a new man I knew from the summer season. We made plans to meet in person after my time in Antarctica ended in November, and I floated into bed with him. Rather than eliciting a softness my touch-starved body needed, his physical presence set off alarms throughout my body. The fog vanished, leaving me exposed to piercing, visceral flashbacks to the rape. The abrupt dissolution of our encounter was brutal, our connection forever lost, and it broke me to have to tell him why my body was rejecting the love my heart desired. I spent the remainder of 2016 drowning in grief.

In September 2017, I came forward to several higher-ups in McMurdo, holding my breath given the lack of success that I had (and expected) in seeking legal action against my rapist in previous months. I was amazed and relieved to find that he was no longer allowed to come to McMurdo. After all the times I flagellated myself for coming forward long after the rape occurred, I felt a sense of resolution in doing so. Putting the matter behind me, I began an equally daunting therapy journey to unravel all the trauma that continued to smother me.

The thing you realize while unraveling trauma is that you can try so hard to find any shard of truth that will give you mastery over a shattering situation, even if it was completely out of your control. You want so much to grant yourself the grace the world would not grant you.

But no grace was to be found. I learned in January 2020 that a first-year Steward like me had been sexually assaulted by someone in the galley. When she came forward, she was told to “talk it out” with the perpetrator, then she was fired. Any temporary sentiment of triumph I felt in coming forward was obliterated, for I knew now with stomach-dropping certainty what would have happened to me had I come forward on station, and how little we as a whole had advanced in the name of justice.

In my despondency, I heard whispers of “Ice Allies”: community members who took great lengths to protect people caught in compromising situations on station as well as hold assailants accountable. This gave me enough hope to return to station for five months in the austral summer of 2021, eager to contribute to an ongoing trend of advocacy.

While confined to my quarantine hotel room in Christchurch, New Zealand during online onboarding, I detected a shift. I noticed how many new faces were coming to McMurdo for the first time, exuberant and wide-eyed. How eerily hypothetical, even far-fetched, all of the sexual harassment scenarios were being presented, despite everything that had happened over the last year. Almost as if it could never happen here.

I knew nothing would ever be the same as before, but in a way…it was like nothing had changed.

Days after I arrived in McMurdo, I had to warn my roommate, eager in her first deployment, about a man I had found out was assaulting women on station at their most vulnerable moments. Six years after my own rape, one year after the gathering of the Ice Allies, I had to warn another woman about a predator. I was overcome with guilt and rage knowing that it was my responsibility to give her a lifeline when no one else would. The same day, I filled out a survey that would contribute to the recently-published Sexual Assault and Harassment Prevention and Response (SAHPR) Report.

I experienced vivid emotional flashbacks as time crawled closer to my rape anniversary, barely soothed by the one month we had an on-station counselor. However, few things will impose the chill of familiarity upon me the way these SAHPR excerpts did:

“Every woman I knew down there had an assault or harassment experience that had occurred on ice” (32).

“People on station fear, and rightfully so, that if they are harassed or assaulted and report it, they will be the ones who will be going home. When things happened on ice, the number one thing I heard was ‘don’t report it or you will go home and be blacklisted from the program’” (47).

“[W]hat they experience as an inadequate screening of applicants reflects the contractors’ payment system. They view the current system, which they describe as contractors receiving a bonus for achieving their hiring allotment, leading them to sometimes hire ‘any warm body’ with limited regard for the prospective employee’s background or suitability” (75).

“Men who occupy essential and hard to replace roles can rape someone and be hired back. USAP [United States Antarctic Program] will treat women who have been assaulted and raped and targeted by these men with suspicion and try to blame the fact they were assaulted on their own behavior” (50).

”NSF [National Science Foundation] is unaware of incidents of sexual assault and harassment because there is attrition at every juncture: victim reporting, supervisor response, investigation, and offender sanctions…NSF does not require contractors and subcontractors to provide full and accurate reports” (59).

I am telling you all of this today, in light of recent Congressional testimony by Leidos and the National Science Foundation. Because given the evasive and copacetic picture painted by these agencies, I want them – and the rest of the world—to know the name and story of at least one person whose life was changed profoundly by their inaction, which helped bring forth the horrific actions of my rapist and greatly exacerbated the resulting trauma I experienced. I came to Antarctica as a young woman hungry for adventure and community, and I deserved to leave that continent with memories of nothing more than that.

If there is any consolation I could possibly obtain from the SAHPR Report, it is this—as notable explorers such as Scott and Shackleton have done before, I have discovered an uncharted land. It is far from isolated turf, however, for I have come upon a multitudinous yet reluctant clan living here, keeping each other at a distance as we tend to interminable wounds. We share a common horror but have yet to witness our collective strength. For we are a village of shame.

A shame that never belonged to us.

-Jennifer Sorensen

Sources:

1. Freyd, J. (1994). Betrayal trauma: Traumatic amnesia as an adaptive response to childhood abuse. Ethics and Behavior, 4(4), 307-329. 10.1207/s15327019eb0404_1
2. Sexual Assault/Harassment Prevention and Response (SAHPR) FINAL REPORT. (2022, June 22). National Science Foundation

The post “Impact” by Jennifer Sorensen appeared first on Survivors.org.

and femininity

and self-perception

somehow always ends up centering men

as if i can’t even claim one thing untouched

i wish i didn’t view myself through their eyes

their shallow, narrow gaze

like a grasp that won’t let go

no matter how many times i ask

[redacted] i didn’t want

and hours laying there on his** chest,

paralyzed after he kept pushing back at my no

i cry on the drive home and question if it was me

i must have been asking for it

after all, what did i expect?? really

i kept it secret for years

just one of many

like being told that he** wanted to choke me out

in second-period history

or that he** wanted to fuck the shit out of me

to some weeknd song

before he even knew my name

i often tell myself that others have it worse

diminishing the way he** destroyed things

my relationship with men

with my body

with any form of intimacy

with my mental health

i thought this was girlhood

i convinced myself of it

and sometimes in a sad roundabout way

i worry that it truly is a defining factor

for so many of us

boys are boys

and as a girl, you can’t f*cking win

you can play into their stereotypes,

their notions, and their fantasies

or can you reject them

the ending is always the same somehow

they always get what they want

their vocabulary lacking “no”

and as much as it hurts, if it all is my fault

then i can make sure it doesn’t happen again

my fault i walk home alone

my fault i took the drink

my fault i let him say those things to me

my fault i thought netflix meant tv

if it is my fault, maybe i can gain control

and sometimes i think that

i hate myself so much,

it feels like their empty words can fill me up

as if the pain they cause

somehow feels comforting and natural

predictable in a way

still, i long for an apology.

one i will never get

some say i am a masochist

while others say i’m just another 21-year-old girl

or maybe i am a “cunt,” if he’s** mad at me

and i can’t help but wonder

if they all mean the same thing to men

*I want to acknowledge that as a white, cisgender woman, my experiences are merely the beginning of what womanhood entails. The intersections of race and class further produce trauma and pain.

**denotes multiple different male-identifying individuals throughout this poem

-Anonymous

The post “I can’t watch The Office S1 E3 anymore” by Anonymous appeared first on Survivors.org.

It’s difficult to process, even more when you try to ignore it. To move forward. Because, well, your brain may try to move forward, but your body still feels… off.

That’s the beautiful thing about the body. It feels with you. Your mind and body are connected in a whimsical dance of life. When you think back to your favorite childhood memory, your body also feels at ease. And vice versa. When you prick your finger, it hurts, but you feel that discomfort, that ick, mentally.

That is the mind-body connection. Which is why when I feel most tense, anxious, overwhelmed, I focus my energy on my body—What part of my body feels good? What part feels most at ease? What part feels tense, and how can we relax more?

So although I’d just like to move forward, the memories bring about discomfort in my body. A feeling I cannot ignore. I feel tense. I feel angry. I clench my jaws and grab at my skin… every time I remember. My body has been violated. My mind lost control.

But let’s recenter.

As I loosen my jaw, slouch a little, take deeper breaths, I connect more to my body. I feel with her in order to heal with her. With each movement, I remind myself of the present moment. I am safe, I am loved, I am cared for.

I must grasp at anything that makes me feel a little less dark… even the faintest sources of light. With the friends and family who show me unconditional love, I am whole. At this moment, I hold them close to my heart and feel the joy they bring me.

-Anonymous

The post “I Didn’t Think It Would Happen a Second Time” by Anonymous appeared first on Survivors.org.

I have swum in the depths of the sea, within the walls of the ocean’s caves.

I have travailed a thousand miles, through valleys and pastures.

I have been scorched by the tormenting heat of the beaming sun in the middle of the desert.

I have climbed every mountain in the harshest of winters.

I have journeyed through a lifetime of terrain, and yet, it appears that the cup of peace will never be in my grasp.

This chaos, the one that was latched to my lips, was not by my own volition. It was by force.

He grabbed the cup and forced me to swallow the chaos that which still dwells inside me.

He spoke so peaceably to me stating that it was okay to drink something so bitter, as long as I could keep it a secret.

“To share its contents, its ingredients, would only make the taste worse on your palette,” he said.

I believed him.

The chaos silenced me.

I have swallowed chaos for sixteen years, and I have desperately searched for a cure.

I have felt the pang of violence, and all its associated helplessness.

The mourning of my innocence, and the destruction of my childhood.

The cycle continued, ever repeating itself.

I believed this was my only way to heal.

I believed that the repeating patterns of pain would save me.

“To be harmed is to be loved,” I thought.

I believed that the only way to heal was to live with and in the chaos.

To be one with chaos.

Anything that was not chaos was unfamiliar.

And anything unfamiliar was dangerous.

“To be harmed was to be healed.”

I have swallowed chaos for sixteen years, and I have found its cure.

Although I have drank chaos,

Although I have been told to be silent,

Although I have been a victim of patterns,

I have found the peace I so desperately wanted to grasp during my youth.

It is now in my hands.

I have found the cure to my misery.

And the cure is to be heard.

-A.A.

The post “A Cure” by A.A. appeared first on Survivors.org.

crazy.

I am realizing

how complex we really are.

I am realizing

that we can exist

in two states of being at once.

I am realizing

we can be okay,

functioning even,

and we can be not okay,

struggling often.

Being a survivor is crazy.

My therapist says,

“you can be both,”

so I am trying to accept that:

I am both –

I am okay

and

I am not okay.

Crazy.

But it feels like I am being…

fake.

dramatic.

fraudulent.

reactive.

over-emotional.

crazy.

I feel crazy.

Because then I also feel…

energized.

happy.

excited.

hopeful.

engaged.

Which makes me feel

like I might be

crazy.

But being a survivor is crazy.

Being a survivor is complex.

And I am just

both –

Okay and not okay.

And that is okay.

Reaching acceptance,

now that,

is crazy.

-Emily Moser

The post “Crazy” by Emily Moser appeared first on Survivors.org.

The walls. 4 years of my walls. They are strong. They haven’t let me get hurt since. I reject, I cancel, I lead on, and I turn down — for me. Because my walls don’t let me do otherwise. My walls do their job. No intruders. No chances taken. I am safe behind them. Nobody can touch me. Nobody will touch me. I am light on my ground. I hover a few feet above the rest. I am safe here. Safe. I am safe.

Vigilance. 4 years of scanning every room I’m in, every time I go out to eat, go to a party, a bar, a class I’m in, a group hangout, a Facebook invite event, I look for you and your name. My dog has the same name as you, did you know that? But he fills me up with so much love, pours his heart and his little soul into me. He fills me with so much love I can’t breathe. He loves me until I hurt. It hurts to love. It does. But I have come to learn that a name is only that. You are a person and he is a dog. A name is the only thing you share. Maybe your name isn’t ruined for me. How can I let something that brings me so much joy share the same fate as you? I won’t. I don’t. I can’t. Your name is not ruined. Yours belongs to you and his belongs to him. Not all things that go by your name are sour.

Mirrors. 4 years of staring back at a different person. She is strong and she is soft and she is so beautiful, yet she is wounded. But she is being stitched up. Flowers—my kind lovers—are growing over the broken dirt that is that night back in August. Back in 2018. Back to a time I can hardly remember anymore. The broken dirt is healing; it is being watered, nurtured, cared for—loved.

-Anonymous

The post “Flowers” by Anonymous appeared first on Survivors.org.

but i loved you and you made me feel good

you disgust me and you make me feel small now

but i loved you and you made me feel larger than life

i loathe you and your face makes me cry now

but i loved you and you made me smile

you kill me and i wish you were dead now

but i loved you and you made me feel so alive

you hurt me and you scare me now

but i loved you and you made me feel safe

see i hate all the things that you make me feel now

cause i remember the things that you made me feel then

then i felt happy, safe, and alive

now i feel small, i feel sick, sad, and scared

i loved you and you made me feel safe

but you hurt me and you scare me now

i loved you and you made me feel so alive

but you kill me and i wish you were dead now

i loved you and you made me smile

but i loathe you and your face makes me cry now

i loved you and you made me feel larger than life

but you disgust me and you make me feel small now

i loved you and you made me feel good

but i hate you and you make me sick now

-Chloe

The post “The Way You Made Me Feel” by Chloe appeared first on Survivors.org.

This project creates a safe, supportive sanctuary for trauma survivors to express their suppressed emotions, unspoken feelings, and bottled-up experiences. We aim to provide a platform for survivors of violence and trauma to find catharsis through creative writing and art. Our curated anthology will feature poetry and stories from survivors, amplifying their voices and promoting empathy. By sharing the stories of trauma survivors, we aim to cultivate a compassionate community that values togetherness, resilience, and healing.

• All writing must be original
• Survivors from every walk of life can submit poetry pieces, short stories, or short prose
• Your work can be about anything, but we are focusing on your creative expression as a survivor, emotions and catharsis
• Word limit: approximately 500 words
• Maximum of three submissions per participant
• Even though it won’t be possible to include everything submitted, we will try our best to include as many of your submissions as possible
• There will be a review process

Please submit your writing below. If you have any questions, please email Submissions@Survivors.org

Submissions will be curated into a Survivor Anthology to raise funds for Survivors.org. By submitting, you consent to having your submission published in this anthology. All submissions are subject to review by Survivors.org staff, and all writing must be original. You will receive information from Survivors.org about whether or not we choose your submission for publication. We thank everyone for their submissions!

The post Submit To Survivors.org’s Poetry Passion Project appeared first on Survivors.org.