i am afloat and barely breathing: 
 
the mask pickles the air i inhale 
i exhale and smoke appears under 
my eyes. deflate me. punctuate my  
starving lungs as i scrabble to   
concentrate. my smile is crowded. 
  
call me the worm in the basilisk 
dress. turn me back or turn me to 
ash in a therapist’s chair. my genes 
are ripped on the knee from falling 
over my own marching feet. i am not 
  
a medical death. i’m not going i’m 
not going not back to bed. i don’t  
care what the unholy spectre behind  
my eyes preaches - she is not him and  
he is not me and i am not my own god: 
  
he chants in chorus murder against 
vacant eyes. he begs for the plastic  
happiness mentioned by all but never  
swallowed. the sun is setting over the 
rainbow and my fingernails still tap. 
  
i do not sink until the chords snap. 
Ryan Bryce (they/them) is a BA (Hons) Creative Writing and English Literature graduate in their mid-twenties, currently training on the PGCE Further Education and Skills Sector course as an English and Creative Writing college lecturer. They live with depression, anxiety, ADHD, and dyspraxia. 
 
in space
Alumni student Deividas's illustrations bring you into another world. Like many other people speaking a second language with dyslexia he has found that communicating with images can be easier than grasping the right words.