By D. Dea My most unsettling thought is not about death or monsters, but it is this question: what if nothing is real? Not the coffee cooling in my hand, not my hand holding the coffee, not even this poem I'm pretending to write. What if we are all phantoms living a dream or avatars in someone's game with no memory of entering? What if there is no god, no devil, just us, wearing many skins learning to live different versions of ourselves while the rest fills the void, s

By Poppi Hmlenitsky For Ellie It has been raining for eternity. Somber trees creek. Plumes of silver escape my parched lips, Cracked as stone ruins of a gothic cathedral. I creep from my crypt: Life-depraved, sickly-creature that I have become, Whimpering on the edge of oblivion. The air shudders at the sight of me, such a young thing with Ancient blood painted along my shackled spine. It gushes from my orifices as if engorging aqueducts. Great clods of molded leaves pi

By Angela Cheveau Pale pumpkins pall the streets and an old man hocks up a phlegm ball moon and bins spew condoms cans canisters of laughing gas and boys on street corners pass packages palm to palm and there’s kids with knives in their stomach their chests their backs but the blood is not fake and the appetite for true crime rises and rises it rises like the sewage soaked sea and costumes celebrate real life killers and the Menendez brothers are suddenly celebrities and the