Lethal Love Letters 4

Dear Nicole,
Welcome my child!
You are now my possession!
The demon’s within you-
I will be your obsession
Exorcism is not
Even an OPTION
You’re stuck with me now
And, I just can’t be forgotten
I seep through your veins
I claw at your skin
You can fight the battle
But, you will NEVER win!
When you think that it’s over
And, you think that you’ve won
You will find out my dear
That the battle’s just begun
A fight to the death
As I take over your soul
With me in your system
I am all that you’ll know
I’ll rape you of everything
That you thought you knew
I’ll brainwash your mind
And, you won’t have a clue
You’ll be left in a corner
Of darkness and grief
I’ll be your religion
Your one and only true belief
Here I am child
And, now you are my whore,
As I patiently sit
Waiting at your door.
Once again it’s Heroin, forevermore.
Nicole D’Settēmi

Nicole is the author of Addictarium: A Heroin Abuse & Recovery Memoir. She is currently living in upstate New York, and is also the author of multiple pieces of lyric poetry, and other writing endeavors. In her spare time she runs a creative design firm, assisting others in need of artistic direction digitally. She loves painting, sketching, and reading when she isn’t busy working on her novels.

Dining with the Dead

This is where i have come to dine.
Postmortem hanging on the menu.
A plenipotentiary of the services of worms.
Hot chitter chatter
Of stern looking trolls, pervade the enclave.
They belched after a meal of death.
Yawned and belched again, a fever in Yiddish.
Gazed at me, a clandestine intruder.
No chatter of humans, but muted conversations
Of mouth less ghosts.
Gastric acid running at the guts.
Then I knew it was the wrong company.

–Eddie Awusi

Eddie is a Nigerian writer of Isoko extraction. He graduated from the prestigious Delta state university, Abraka, in 2007, where, he got a Bachelor of Arts degree in English and Literature. He has been published in Dissident Voice, The Australian Times, Tuck Magazine and other numerous magazines and anthologies. The pen and paper are his playmates.

Now and Then

She disappeared for a week.

Waiting for the bruises to fade.

The she disappeared inside herself.  


A dark satin ribbon

against her milky white skin.

Up against the crease where

thigh melts into her pelvis,

where no one will see.  



Wake up




hours on the internet

looking up the price of flights

Places she knows she’ll never go.  

Places with names that melt

like spun sugar


sleep that eludes weekdays

falls like a deluge

Sleeping. Ceiling. Netflix. Ceiling. Sleeping. 



Pretending it’s normal.

That she is normal.

That nothing has changed.          



smoky darkness

waterfalls of liquor

a trickle

then a torrent  

a guy, not her guy, watches her

the guy isn’t handsome,

isn’t charming,

isn’t smart;

but what he is,

he thinks…

is here.

blurry face she shouldn’t have kissed

wanting to go home

hands around her throat

streams of silent tears

coursing over her temples

into her hair.



it begins:

A birthday.

Moth emerging

out of a cocoon

of lethargy and apathy.

Lather, rinse, repeat.  

She picks up the razor.  
Back of her knee –

a shifting mountainside

contours and indentations.

The razor slips.

She hisses.

Blood trickles

There it hangs

a Rorschach test

wherein she sees herself.

She smiles.

For the first time in months



the razor

or pin

or her nails

into her palms


This is real,

she thinks.

I made this happened.


It’s okay,

she thinks.

I only do it now and then.

–Kylie Goetz

When Kylie was five, she wanted to be either a nun or a lounge singer. Luckily (for the church and lounge patrons everywhere) she discovered a love for storytelling around the same age.  This eventually translated into a B.A in theatre from Florida State University and a MA in creative writing from Macquarie University.  You can buy her book here and follow her Word of the Day Poetry Project


By David Bransfield

It was the summer of 2009 and we were finally free from university and ready to drink, to party and to be once again with old friends. Jack’s parents owned a tiny cabin, too small to fit all twelve of us without some serious cuddling, that was located on a private road somewhere in the middle of the woods with only two other houses anywhere within 3 kilometers. So, being young and happy, we packed ourselves into cars and traveled off for another long weekend exactly like we had done the year before and the year before that. We arrived there as if to a warm daydream, where the music is loud, the beers are plentiful and the women are gorgeous beyond words.

I remember that I was playing beer pong when the golden retriever trotted up to us because I remember that he stood in silence, panting with a long droopy tongue, and his head moved after the ball as if he really cared who won the game. And I definitely remember the arrival of the little girl that came along after him thanks to the muddy panties she was wearing on her head. Her name was Julia, we talked a little bit, and Julia was just finished with fourth grade and she was always giggling and always smiling and also the dog’s name was Jimi.
That night, we all of us slept cramped together on bunkbeds in the only bedroom, a hot, damp room that stank of spilled beers and human beings. I was sleeping the sweet sleep of the drunkard until I was awoken suddenly in the dark by the sound of shrieks, of Ali yelling from above, “Who is that? Somebody at the window! Who is that?” Suddenly all of us were awake, everyone was talking at once, and not one of us was unaccounted for.
The next day, the only topic of conversation was the mysterious occurrence. Ali swore that she had seen a girl at the window and Julia quickly became our prime suspect. So when the golden dog trotted up to us to beg for food, I thought that we would soon have an opportunity to question the suspicious girl and get to the bottom of matters. But when she never appeared I decided to go and to check for myself. I walked with Jimi in the direction of the two other houses, and for almost half of an hour, we saw nothing but trees. Finally we arrived at the end of the road, where there stood two small houses, the first facing the other.
Jimi the dog sat in the middle of the unpaved road and watched as I approached the first tired looking house, storm tape still on the windows and dust on the steps,  and knocked on the door. “Can I help you son? Ain’t nobody living in that house for a while now.” I turned. The voice had arrived from behind me, from a older man that was stooped over and scratching at Jimi’s ears. “Yeah hi, I just came down from the Rem’s place ‘cuz uh, I was trying to return this dog to his owner and maybe talk with Julia. We met her when she came by yesterday. Is she your daughter?” “Well Jimi here is ours, but I don’t have no daughters. Just the two boys. Julia you say? I can’t say I know no Julia and I thought we knew everyone livin’ here in Wallenpaupack. You said Julia, right?” Wait no, but really, who is Julia? I made the old man swear to me that he was telling me the truth, no jokes, that he had never heard of a little girl named Julia. The next day me and my friends went and checked in down at the bait shop and the men there told us the same story. Never heard of of a Julia. In small towns like that, everyone knows everyone else. No surpises. Besides us who came by for a weekend every year, and some teenagers that usually stay a few days in August Wallenpaupack wasn’t a place that got too many strangers. At the bait shop they tell us it we should cut back a bit on the drinking, that it was just our imagination, that Julia never really existed. But me and my friends, we know what we saw. We talked to her. Spent time with her. Touched her hand even. And that’s why I know that I will never forget her, giggly, smiley Julia with those dirty panties draped over her hair.

It Happened to Me

The hair was a forest and the face beyond the cottage deep in it.

The hands were cracked and worn, the fingernails perfect.

The eyes darting back and forth, nailing each thing to the ground.

The feet were curved.  Pointed at the end.

The toenails were blue.

The spine cut deep into the back.

Water would funnel through the basin of the spine and down into the drain.

The hip-bones were sharp.

Eyes wide apart.

Strong arms.

Long neck.

Shoulder blades were two strange animals beneath the skin.

A scar on the knee.

Missing a tooth way in the back,

from a fight one time.

A yellow bicycle.

A copy of Bukowski.



And the like.

It all happened.


It twisted though my life and left a mess.

As the pieces were picked up,

“Did it happen?”

It did.

It happened to me.


–Joe Fisher


Joe is a writer living in Los Angeles. His plays have appeared in Los Angeles, Portland, New York, Dallas and Chicago. He has also worked on several feature film projects that he will not name because he is too embarrassed to admit he worked on them. He also has a son named Dash and a fish named Billy Bob.

Lethal Love Letters 3

Dear Heroin,
I gave you a shot! Yes, I did today!
Hell I gave you a shot-right in my vein
And you were on point, with what you said
I no longer feel empty, I no longer feel dead
As you seep through my veins
I sit here pensive
My peace is so priceless, my serenity is extensive
I feel like a Queen in some screwed* up strange place
No longer these demons-do I have to face
So I ask of you Heroin
Just to visit once more
Come visit again, just knock at the door!
Nicole D’Settēmi

Nicole is the author of Addictarium: A Heroin Abuse & Recovery Memoir. She is currently living in upstate New York, and is also the author of multiple pieces of lyric poetry, and other writing endeavors. In her spare time she runs a creative design firm, assisting others in need of artistic direction digitally. She loves painting, sketching, and reading when she isn’t busy working on her novels.

Without You

I never really understood the how phrase “I can’t live without you.” when it comes to your lover. I’ve actually always thought it was rather silly, being that we’ve gone our whole lives without knowing said lovers beforehand. Now this term possesses new meaning. Ever since that tender moment when you unceremoniously drifted into my life, you’ve taken control and have enlightened me on just how uninformed I was on this matter. You’ve somehow dug your way under my skin, through the barriers, over the walls, uncompromisingly defeating all of the guards and headed straight into the depths of my soul. You’ve opened up chambers in my heart that I never knew existed. I’ve sacrificed my physical person allowing our essences to fuse. I’ve fashioned a life for myself that completely revolves around you and yours. Now if, and may the gods forbid it, you were to ever leave me, you’ll take that piece of me that is essentially attached to you. Without it, I’d fundamentally die like an orchid in the dark. Blood will continue to flow through my veins, but I will be dead from the inside which is far worse than the out. All that once aroused, will begin to depress. The brilliant colors of life would drip to the drains and spiral away; things would no longer be vivacious and pleasant. I would not, no I COULD NOT continue life as I once did merrily without you by my side. This is how I’ve come to not only understand the phrase, but have come to the conclusion for myself, that I really and truly cannot “live” without you.


What is love to me? A gentle death of logic, a worthy mental torment, a delicious poison that will bring your sentiments of solitude to its final resting place.


What is love to me? All of the insane beauty I see when I look into your eyes.


–Joshua JaiBz

Joshua is a poet/performer, writer, podcast co-host, and an empanada addict. This is a piece from his poetry book Get Lost in the Deep Blue Me. Words are his toys and life is his playground. Links to his books and podcast can be found on his Instagram.