don't die press

Storms in the Night

by , on
2020-10-08

A Throwback Thursday piece by Yvonne Jayne, originally published July 2014.

I am shaped by her thought of me,
I am named in her dreams,
Baptized by her vision of me
And born into her likeness.

I am shattered by her disappointments
I cry for her lost life,
I fall in her vacuum and
I flail in her failures.

I am driven by her dreams,
I am powered by her regrets,
She is capsized by the curse
Of her marriage to a madman.


I am rocked by his rages
Storms in the long night,
His genius beats against his bars
I am shattered by his disappointments.

I am unsteady, rising to the sun,
I am called in visions
To express what is sinking,
Back to the core of me again.


I am unheard in my expression
Struggling to have a voice,
I am told to stop being dramatic
And make obedience my choice.


I am shattered by their disappointments
Drowning in their struggles,
Each is the enemy of the other
Storms in the long night.

What to Do with My Legs

by , on
2020-05-21

Well, folks, you probably haven’t heard from us in a while. So here is an absolute treat to make it up to you. The elegant yet uproarious audio stylings of one Christina Guldi are here to make your Throwback Thursday. The audio is split into 2 parts. You can also read an excerpt below, or the full text in Issue 1.1, the very first issue of S/tick!

What to Do with My Legs by Christina Guldi, Part 1:

What to Do with My Legs by Christina Guldi, Part 2:

Can’t I just be still and enjoy this for what it is? Live in the moment like a Zen Buddhist. Why is he doing this? It doesn’t seem as if he knows he wants this. Did he forget where he is? He seems anxious. He did say he was a Buddhist earlier at the bar, right? Was that around last call? So I’m SURE he’s living in the moment. Isn’t this supposed to make me feel appreciated? Feminine? Empowered? Why do I feel like I supposed to be rooting him on with bullhorns and sparklers somehow? I’m not really into feeling like having orgasm anyway right now. I feel like I’m supposed to have one though. Because if I don’t I am somehow failing him . . . in his own expectations for himself. Is there something wrong with me that this isn’t really making me feel sexy? Am I too uptight for not being able to just indulge? Why am I wishing he was kissing my shoulders or my back or the back of my knee instead? Why don’t they ever kiss the back of my knees? How would he know if I didn’t tell him? But how would they know if they never try? Ohh, why don’t they ever kiss my knees? Why am I expecting golden swirls of equality and adoration to be emanating from the skins of our bodies as they mesh together?

My Mother is Bone White and Black

by , on
2019-12-05

Editor’s Note: Watch the don’t die press blog for some oldies but goodies from an earlier era of S/tick!

by Megan Harris

My mother is bone white and black
daughter born from cocaine breath
came out on the cusp of winter.
A wispy gasp and darkened heart
skin is paper stretched over bone
white sheet, dark pen, dark red.
Mother warns daughter to not love death
to not long to feel his dark eyes
fall upon her breasts.
Daughter is of winter locking,
a chest begging to be opened to light,
fill the lungs with dirt and breathe life.
Mother is bone white and black,
her burning head stares down
Daughter turns away again – frozen.

(Issue 1.3: Torn)