about the author

Nic Alea is a poet and fiction writer holding a fellowship from the Lambda Literary Foundation and was voted one of SF Weekly’s “Best Writers without a Book.” Nic has performed at the National Queer Arts Festival and has work featured in journals such as Muzzle Magazine, the Paris American, The Legendary, Word Riot, Write Bloody, and others. Nic is working on their debut Young Adult novel and currently lives in Los Angeles. Find more info at bloodstonecreative.wordpress.com.


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Nic Alea



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 I prefer spending most days talking to the dead over not talking to the dead,
                                 pasting arch angel feathers to my chin, walk around a
                                                                          pronounced white beard,

                                                       The pharmacist seems stressed today,
                                                                          I don’t offer him my pills,
                                                                                           they’re mine,
                                                                                           I don’t share,
                                                                             I don’t share my dead,
                                                I lay them out like salted bread on an altar,
                                                                      a candle flicking my tongue,
                                                                                     pus hands blister,

                                                                                            Been before
                                                                                       a tragic woman,
                                                                been before a childless monster,
                  been before a barrel of wine and a planet smashing into the sun,
                                           been before a raincoat man falling into his net,
                                                                               anchored to his boat,
                                                                                 cast into his harbor,
                                                                               been before a harbor,
                                                                fish pressed up against his face,
                                                                     slimy bodies beating furious,
                                                                    slicing his cheeks with scales,
                                                             gouging his eyes with small teeth,
                                                                                                still alive.





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