By Morte Ashgrave They say the first cut is the deepest, that a good death is the sweetest. Mine would be an old horror movie— distorted, bad acting, everyone running the wrong way. My life was an old rock song, uneven, messy, turned out wrong. Lyrics and rhythm out of sync, a one-hit wonder with no comeback planned. I lived like a victim in a wrong-turn film, always choosing the house over the road, mistaking noise for safety. On Elm Street, I’d survive. Not because I’m brav

By Deborah Humphrey A doctor tells me you can assess the level of a woman’s depression based on the stickiness of her kitchen floor. I walk barefoot by the cooker my feet stick I stand for years A lingering examination of the torso the doctor declares depression psycho- somatic hysteria Uncurable After a time I am placed in the museum for wax-work dolls Doctors pass sometimes they poke watch me blink a new doll arrives Feet raw from years on kitchen floors doctors smile admi

By Tina Andrews A game between two lovers unfold There is no winner, it’s untold Roll a dice, pray above three One, two or three, a cut to thee Four, five or six a needle stick Heaven or hell the choice before us You roll a one, cut your flesh, with no fuss I draw up a fix, rolling a six You roll one, another cut to your wrist With a second six I decide to twist Rolling again I land a two I make a deep cut, now bleeding fast like you Draining blood, energy low, you roll a fiv