By Jan Moran Neil I remember taking less and a little less stuffing the gap in my gut with the gap in the words that were not being served at the table where I measured the spoons for the paying guests in the room that was shrouded by conifer trees and my eyes never cried but were onions dried and then fried with my bones as brittle as cracked egg shell, my breath someone said was over boiled yolk, my throat sounded like artichoke so I took a little less because it was all so

By Janelle Standish There are nights my body mutinies, throws me back into rooms I swore I left. The air thickens, turns animal. Every shadow carries his shape. Every silence tastes like warning. My ribs still flinch at ghosts. My skin remembers things I never gave permission for: hands that claimed me, breath that cornered me, a hunger that ate the edges of who I was. I learned to disappear in plain sight, to fold myself into something quiet, something compliant, something t

By Katrina Lemaire our blood is long distance a prodigal paradigm shift lipstick mirror kisses & telling horror stories in our basements using fridge magnets as planchettes letters papered on backwards scribbling out ghost names— my sister screamed I screamed mouths peeled open teeth feathering out final girls left at the altar one of us is crying in rosewater one of us is smiling in slaughter so we salt eachother in a circle of raven bones our names no longer a body fo