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I am told: die twice,
first when I die
and again the last time my name is said,
as if I wouldn’t wish to get all my deaths
over with at once instead of waiting in dirt
for grandchildren to pass, and what
when some futuristic high schooler
looking for sources for his paper
on the colloquialisms of a bygone era
comes across my personal Twitter:
resurrection?
As if words are so powerful,
as if vibrations of my spoken name
can travel through earth to my buried body,
a defibrillator for my heart,
my second heart, my hidden heart,
whose BPM is calculated
by the number of times my name is said
to the power of those that hear it,
all the power is with those that hear it.
Would I be able to at least hear what they say,
or just lie in silence, having to trust
that the living built my tomb walls strong enough
to keep me safe from my past and its interpretations.
Really,
I fear being alive
and alone,
my name forgotten by man
years before it’s ready for headstone.
Would I begin to rot where I stood? Left to wander,
maybe through forests and empty lands but eventually
into crowds of the loved and hated, the known,
who would surely notice me, the living monster of melting flesh,
a monster, funnily enough, who’s not easy to forget.
The legends and fright and folk songs
would revive my second heart with new legacy,
but a legacy of nightmares and worm-eaten eyes,
the rotting girl who came surely to consume us.
Even the power of that legacy
would not restore my fallen body,
only tie me in this zombie form
to a world that will not let die.



Brianne Kerr is a writer of many things, but likes to keep at least one foot in the ponds of weird or funny at all times. You can find her on Twitter @typingwithstyle.
Current Issue
3 Oct 2022

Lying in bed last night I felt fingers reach in, grabbing. I opened in spite of myself as you clawed me with your fingernails, flattened, panicked. Split throat, iron tongue, white masks ranged overhead, the rings on their fingers scraping me as they reached in to take you.
from my tower we climb, shroud as my veil. We leap on his fae steed
I tell smug Cyclops that I’m as gay as the next mutant, and that all mutants find themselves within battles
Get ready to feel hungry, because the theme for this quarterly roundup is food.
Wednesday: The Chosen and the Beautiful by Nghi Vo 
Wednesday: Where You Linger & Other Stories by Bonnie Jo Stufflebeam 
Issue 26 Sep 2022
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Issue 5 Sep 2022
Issue 29 Aug 2022
By: Cat T.
Issue 22 Aug 2022
Issue 15 Aug 2022
Issue 8 Aug 2022
Issue 1 Aug 2022
Issue 18 Jul 2022
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