Julia D'Silva

Illustration: Kelsea Shore. Cancer is cold like waterfar out to sea, so cold thesun’s kisses get lost likemy feet inside the printsvanishing in the forest.My soul space stops,forgets to scream.The heart is a dyingbird, raging for lifewildly in its cage ofribs. Blue shuddersflake green, rustedpain off as fish gasp,the redness of space.Fish swim in waterwithout being awarethey are fish, or thereis water, water isconsciousness as arefish.

Illustration: Rame Abdulkader. if you pick up the phone i will tell you that to know a woman is a privilege, and not a right. i gave you the privilege of myself. in turn, you taught me regret. guilt. shame. you taught me that i didn’t exist without you. ever since you left the city i drink i dance i do what i want. i dive headfirst into the dark pool of the night. i don’t come up for air; you made me good at holding my breath. i don’t think about you, i think about her.

A very old man sits in a worn leather armchair in his favourite room in his house. The walls are lined with shelves of vinyl records. In the centre of the farthest wall is a fireplace, casting an orange glow upon the leather armchairs that sit across from it. The armchairs are flanking a small tweed record player. It is sitting open, the little light labelled ‘on/off’ already glowing red, faded photographs pinned to its lid illuminated by the firelight.