Punk Monk Press/Magazine

Caitlin Coo has a remarkable fashion line which you can find here  <3                        If the magic of fairy tales is a life force, it’s the dying embers of a candle in the wind.  It’s hard to wish on stars when the midnight skies are bleached by a million electric lights and your eyes are downcast and blinded by the latest iPhone glow. Pixies fade into oblivion, skewered on jaded white picket fences and cynicism bred of a disbelieving society resulting in a genocide of fey-folk. There are no happily ever afters. Midnights come and go along with someone’s fairytale ball. The enchantment ends as the cold, cruel hands of time move methodically forward to chime in a new day.  Like many girls before, there will be no shining carriage or luxury car just a smashed up pumpkin already beginning to ferment and mould. What was once a ball gown hangs in tatters, no better than the rags th...

                                                                           A man walks in—                                      I bring him his tea,                                      Our eyes meet;            ...

I could tell you a lot of things. Like  where I was last night and how much  beer I drank and how many times I wanted  to break someone's face open with my fist. I could describe in detail how people around me seem not to  matter as much, people in general, all their  intentions and perspectives and externalized realizations  cluttering my surroundings. I could sit you down and explain the ways I function when I am sober and then  when I am not, how my brain reacts to stimuli  presented to me without warning. The stories  I could tell you would challenge your everyday opinions about the world, about yourself, your matter of being. My voice  would carry across the space between us and leave you  lonely and alone. Your face would become ashen and your  blood would drain into places you never knew existed. It would be a simple thing, really, without much need for instruction. Look at m...

 She’s far above fair Verona,     she’s entangled with the stars .   Galaxies swirl like soap,  they slip through her fingers.      She scoops up the universe,    and cradles it in her palm                                                         Fourteen years old.     Buried a blade in her belly.   Like smoke, Romeo vanished.   He gulped and savored every last bit,  her sweet, youthful juice drained to the pit.  She refused to return,  not to Mother’s sculpted mold.    Now she rots.     A spoiled peach.  She doesn’t weep his name ,  ...