The Needle's Tip Is Not Sharp Enough to Cut Me Out

I see the demons you dance with; chanting in your ear, ripping you apart, gnawing upon your flesh—consuming you. Your nightmare has peeled my eyelids open. You say, “I’m a monster that can’t be revived. My carcass is a puppet to the demons that infect my soul: A hollow shell filled with darkness and decay.” I realize the words tangle on your tongue like the English Ivy on the stone walls that trap you inside. I know you’re shackled behind your sapphire orbs that peer upon my face.

I am not scarred...

I am in control,

Of my fate!

From Guest Contributor McKenzie A. Frey

English Ivy

Flamboyant scarlet blossoms arched twisting, winding heirloom English ivy. An

unexpected downpour ignored by the water-soaked guests. Whitewashed mason jars

splashed crimson pallets of rustic rural splendor. The music began, he stood nervously

waiting, looking down at his rented black shoes. She grasped her father's arm. Fervent

desire charged fiery passion. Sugary words melted sultry shadows. Fireflies and fairy

dust lit moonless nights. Silence invited the darkness. Substance replaced by distance;

whiskey preferred to a kiss. Emotions frost bit in autumn's showy splendor she'd climb

grasping, experiencing struggle with the fortitude of English ivy. She knew he watched

her sleep.

From Guest Contributor Christy Schuld