Dear Reader

You’d see the beauty in a fountain of lava, fires spreading across the blacktop, the necessity of creation after destruction. I drink tea—try to swallow my suspicions with lemon and honey, the bright sweetness doesn’t stop my obsession with destruction. Monday, I will try not to disintegrate—try to unravel the lies, how you once wanted a weak girl who shared the same type of destruction. I find ways to eviscerate your former paramours in conversation with others; I have been leisurely indulging in my own destruction. Sometimes I want to spill the secrets that I keep from you; I see ghosts around every corner—they poke at my fear of destruction. My anxiety is death by a thousand cuts—yours a slow suicide; we do our own dances with the Grand Dame and Varlet—Destruction Even on the days when I rage alone, I long for the nights curled next to you tracing sigils on your back to protect you from self-destruction. Archetypes sewn in my bones—I’ve mast

Sneaking into a wizard’s home offers risk to a high degree, Dalmation guarding doors toss a juicy steak to occupy his jaws and slide inside, feet pattering soft like any ballerina does like a dance with no audience, swinging your body into a dead-silent house, you want to reach her, his living doll. Not sure what your plan is once you do, kidnap this macabre creation or kill it before it can destroy you, your allure once seemed enough but you’ve come to realize, he never wanted you, it was always her. He keeps her in the sunroom which reflects moonlight piercing beams straight to your heart. Creep across to darkened dollhouse; one ring of light shimmers in the center like a beating heart, or sliver of moon. upstairs in a Victorian draped bedroom lies the shrunken ballerina, perfect as ever even 10x less her size. Creak of floorboards alerts too late, you’ve barely caught a glimpse before you feel him, sinister shadow crawling overtop - you are in

Small hand in large, they run along the shallows, turn and dip for full immersion. Stretch your newly upright legs apart and drop towards the water, let it go. Now cup a fist of water, front and back. A mother teaches her pretty toddler how to pee in the sea. --- Kathy Gee’s  career was in heritage. H er poetry collection was published by V. Press  and she wrote the spoken word elements for  http:// suiteforthefallensoldier.com/ . Her next small collection –  Checkout  - is due out in March 2019.

From form to form we become masters of fraud, checking boxes marked writer playwright poet grown-up God. We have hardly assembled, filling out nothing remotely official-looking in our adult suits with pockets full of pens, gushing. --- Alisdair L R I Hodgson is a Scottish writer, frequently found @Youthanised. He has published poetry with Adjacent Pineapple, The Kindling Journal and Shoreline of Infinity, and is joint editor in chief of digital literary magazine Bandit Fiction.