By Ainsley Hayward The grip of your bite stings like a malignant cancerous cell, blossoming the destruction of sanctioned virtues, blood remembers what I tried to forgive Your fingers are like sitting on a beach of lamentation at night, surrendering calloused soles into the skeletal ashes of sand, presenting your body as hollow so I couldn't stand Those rosy pink lips innate the soil beneath my forsaken indifference toward individuality, bringing silence in thunder and darkn

By TM Pain. It builds. Rolling like a storm, building pressure in your chest. It’s too much. The emptiness. Enveloping everything is what it does best. You scream. No sound escapes. A wordless cry. Friends don’t see. Family won’t ask. You look “fine” on the outside. Harm. The externalization of the internal pain. A reprieve. Suddenly the storm, It stops. Fading away like smoke on the breeze. Stillness. Short lived. But even then, With dissipated pain, That’s when I knew, I’d

By Dorian Nightingale Body-bagged. Toe-tagged. A cadaver-stanza knitted together by a Hagedorn pen-needle. Note how the wrist-rolling action of its bevel-tipped nib Is interwoven into this skin-thin, grey- pallid paper. See the carefully threaded word placement. Look how this semi-colon has been clamped; each syllable of sibilance strategically spun. Observe the contracture of the syntax. Rigor mortis within its grammar. Document the dead lines, nylon