By Matthew Vorley The sunflower once stood tall gold halo, head lifted to a sky I could never reach but now its petals hang like torn confessions, colour drained, spine cracked, a monument to everything I failed to hold. I watch it die slow, deliberate, the way love dies when the voice shakes and the mind shuts down and the heart forgets how to speak. Its stem folds in on itself just like my chest did the day I walked away from the only warmth I knew. Now there’s nothing but

By Sid Wilson Knit your entrails together, Wrap them around your needles and tug to craft yourself into something new that forgets what imperfection feels like. Compress yourself against the inner edges Of the shape you used to be. Fix the insides first. Cleanse the pollution of nerve tissue, unrefined organ matter. Women made by male-manufactured belief, to make you believe it too, and it must be true because lies are ugly, and they are beautiful. You want to be beautiful

By Maryam Imogen Ghouth There is a room beneath the noon—no clocks, no sun. We fold morning into a coin, slip it under the tongue, enter with pockets full of hours. Outside the city bargains with horns and flyers. We learn the economy of absence: how to make a day vanish between two breaths. Sometimes life asks for me back: I hand myself over as a crumpled note. I carry in my chest the debt of having been gone, but I like the red lights that rain, the downward spiral, the vel