By Kerry Burton-Galley Whenever I succumb to my depression, or become paralysed by this dissociation, I seek to find some sort of consolation in the company of killers. I can tell you it’s just morbid curiosity or a keen interest in criminology but truth be told, it’s their relatability, especially those otherwise ‘good fellas.’ It cuts through my mental silence to listen to accounts of perverted violence being told with such mannerly indifference. I don’t see them as mon

By Georgia Hilton that enfolds you. The softest envelope, night’s blanket. A velvet coverlet brushing your earlobe, skimming the surface of a cheekbone. You breathe into me and I absorb it. There is no me, but you suffuse it. It’s not darkness after all, but waning light that casts the shadows. I am a shelter from it, your deepest hollow. The ink of an underground cavern. What fantastical creatures swarm the imagination here, living without sunlight or oxygen. But they are re

By Gillian Lenore Beneath the cracked bones in my chest, where old shadows braid themselves into prayer, there’s a hunger- inherent and incessant- a beast, born from loneliness, fed on every hand that ever let go. It would silently call out. And monsters would come. Smelling of comfort and wearing sheep’s clothing, I let them in- and spent years confusing echoes for answers, claws for comfort, gnashing teeth for devotion. I mistook their shadows for shelter, their hunger for