Prohibited Pleasures

A poem written by Megan Wallace, the talented founder and editor of Spectrum Zine, an online publication testing the boundaries of where queer feminism can go. The words were inspired by Rossetti’s Goblin Market, a literary gem in erotic poetry that is swathed in metaphor.


I created three panels illustrating the poem that are intended to be read in a cycle- endlessly repeating.

As we walked hand-in-hand and silent,
basking in the streetlamp’s judgmental glare,
I would watch the interlocking shapes of our shadows
keeping time on the pavement.

Later, I traced eternity with my eyes shut,
following the outlines of your body
as we lay in the wrinkled sheets
of my single bed.

And now,
I will lay my body down,
As offering
As sacrifice
As feast.

I will stretch my legs out
as wide as they will go
I will wrap my arms around you
to form a bridge
between then and now

Check out Megan’s beautiful Instagram- @_go_fish

This work is featured in the newest edition of Spectrum-

Affection or the lack of


This piece was requested by a friend, after I babbled at her about the greatness of recording something once hurtful in a drawing- for me when I doodle like this- the painful event becomes something distant and other than myself.

” Can you not show your affection so much, when I am trying hard to care less “

Rotten: A Provocative Poem

This is a poem to repulse and anger, to convey the brutality and indignity of rape, but what should shock you readers, is that the scariest thing about rape is not its violence, but its commonality. Rape and sexual assault must not be a shared experience.

My record of service is scarred yet I return to the front.

45% ready for service. Mutilated at 17. Maimed at 18. Discharged at 19.

Rotting away on leave.

Once nearly raped, twice, three times a lady.

Words written by birds. Who peck and scratch at the surface but flee when they see raw bone.

Skin ripped away in the morning, blood stains by midday, wounds gouged in the night.

My flesh will die and you will lick the corpse. More fool you, to feast on flesh marked by you, Putrefying in your nostrils,

Don’t touch me, I’m Rotten.

But you didn’t listen the first time.