Even pinned to the altar, my sacrificial dagger clutched over your chest, you are fearless—after all, one of us was always destined to die. From girlhood, we let the priests dress us in a pantomime of our future; blood-red robes and bone-white face paint.
Sacrifice
Written by Amara Cavahlo
Content warning: suicide
Even pinned to the altar, my sacrificial dagger clutched over your chest, you are fearless—after all, one of us was always destined to die. From girlhood, we let the priests dress us in a pantomime of our future; blood-red robes and bone-white face paint. They should have raised us apart if they wanted an honest fight.
You let me win, thinking that would save me. But I have the dagger, the final choice: I will not kill you, nor make you my murderer.
Love, I ask only one thing: hold me, once I rip the lifeblood from my breast.
What is love?
Written by Elina Pugacheva
People say my love is the KGB, corruption, Novichok, picture-perfect women, snow, and vodka.
My love is 13,749 km away. She’s cold in winter but warm to visitors. My love is not politics. She is home. She’s the cramped apartment you still recognise after thirteen years away. She’s the shabby Soviet airport that suddenly swims because you won’t see it again for a long time. My love is all tangled now with cowards poisoning brave men. My love is the pain of leaving. My love is nostalgia.
My love is my homeland.
The Never-Ending Moment
Written by Lee Perkins
I rode through the west of Northcote this night January 15th 2021 with blue whips of storms killing the light pollution above.
I bulleted over Merri Creek to be washed with that freezing summer air.
Melbourne never stopped chasing me.
It’s the dream that lifts me, the toddler with his mum at D.O.C on Saturdays and the 22-year-old who can’t believe the no. 1 stops two blocks from his door.
Dad’s cloud breath on August morning gesturing when it feels like the lightning has already struck.
Melbourne, the never-ending moment.
Had my heart before I could talk.