Glaze Fall 2022 Vol. VII: Bedlam

Glaze is an Austin-based creative community that seeks to celebrate self-expression in every form. See more at www.glaze.community

They say there’s beauty in chaos — that chaos breeds life and everything happens for a reason. Our eyes have seen chaos and beauty and watched as accidental moments provided us with clarity in the end. We have all felt the agonizing pain from our own little (and big) fires. Although unbearable in the moment, the strength one receives from this suffering is all the more advantageous. Thus, beauty may be created.

Welcome to Volume VII of Glaze, Bedlam. For this fall volume, we chose to return to our roots of darker themes, taking what we learned about ourselves and channeling the most confusing, convoluted, and hidden parts of us. Bedlam represents chaos, confusion, turmoil, and all around mayhem. This may sound frightening to some, but remember, there is beauty in horror, mystery, and bewilderment.

In this volume, we challenged our members with the task to pull from the moments they were set ablaze. We asked them to reach into the deepest parts of themselves and drag out their hurricanes, tornadoes, wildfires, tsunamis, and siphon them into their art. I want to point out that pandemonium does not equal darkness, as you will see shortly. There are themes of our inner children, the things inside of us we do not understand. Having an open mind while creating this volume was key.

As you’re reading this, I want you to recall the belief that nothing is accidental. Everything you are about to see is intentional with a purpose behind it, no matter how much it may puzzle you. Look a little deeper, read between the lines, and carry this idea with you through the rest of your days.

Skyler Burk Editor-in-Chief

Skyler Burk

Mariam Ali Maha Qadri

Ryan Velasquez

Raina Shea Harmon

Audrey Sinclair Tony Vega Melina Perez Joyce Kabwe

Evelyn Elizabeth Deal

Jesús Daniel López Clare O’Brien

Amarys Dejai Ana Cecelia Martinez Dalena Le Ella Claret

Wilfredo X Cruz Garcia Katrina Walters Rebeca Jovel Beck Preciado Heaven Star Baize-Garcia

ZINE

Editor-in-Chief Creative Director/Co-Director of HMU Managing Editor/Director of Layout Editorial Director/Co-Director of Modeling Co-Director of HMU Co-Director of Modeling

Asst. Director of Modeling Co-Director of Styling Co-Director of Styling Director of Photography Asst. Director of Photography

Director of Writing

Asst. Director of Writing Copyeditor

Asst. Director of Layout

Director of Marketing/Social Media Asst. Director of Marketing/Social Media

Director of Community Outreach Asst. Director of Community Outreach Director of Events

Asst. Director of Events

Abigail Cervantes, Aleigh Gerron, Alessio Alaniz, Alexa Calderon, Alexa Natalia Herrera, Alexander Santistevan, Alexandra S., Alexandria Renee, Alexandria Shrouder, Alexia Angelides, Alexus Shaw, Amanda Cavazos, Ana Mahadevan, Anabelle Gilliam, Andrea Nunez, Angelica Blaze, Anjianie Perez, Anthony Ezell, Aoife Hopkins, Arthur Mangum, Ashlee Hawkins, Ashley Flowers, Ashley Mack, Ava Jiang, Britney Larios, Bryn Palmer, Calpurnia Mariposa, Cameron Hill, Cara Buse, Catherine Hermansen, Celeste Cerenio, Celeste Montes De Oca, Christine Ellington, Colin Cantwell, Colin Nations, Corey Brooks, Cynthia Preciado, Daniel Alessio Alaniz, Daniel G Clenney, Daniela Maureira, Danielle Xu, Dominique Coleman, Elina Chen, Elysia Perkins, Emely Romo, Emily Gift, Emily Anderson Meyer, Enrique Arancibia, Estelle Isaac, Faith McNabnay, Ginger Rodriguez, Gracie Hiemenz, Grant Kanak, Hana Ali, Indigo Dewdrop Ghonima, Jasmine Ekunwe, Jazlyn Figueroa, Jeffrey Jin, Jordan Nobles, Joyce Alexander, Judo, Juleeane, Julia Ann Cloudt, Kalista Tamez, Kamdin Montagne, Kasidy Grant, Kassandra Hernandez, Kate Hernandez, Kate Mansberger, Katrina Walters, Kelsey Marquis, Kyrstin Inman, Lauren Lee, Lea Čakić, Lexi Chavez, Lily Fischer, Lisa Kiara Palomares, Livia Blackburn, Lizzie Dragon, Lorianne Willett, Lucy Hwang, Lucy Owens, Luisa Pineda, Macy Butler, Madeline Rose Thompson, Madison Huckins, Maleah Piedra, Malik Julien, Maria Perea, Martha Martinez, Melanie Nicole Faz, Meredith Brown, Meredith Robertson, Michael Quint, Michelle Arriaga, Monica Araniva-Lopez, Morgan Kuin, Nathania Arfah, Niles Davis, Ocian Olaudah, Olivia M Emigh, Payton Wyatt, Persia Nezhad, Pranav Myana, Preston Rolls, Rachel Lazatin Aquino, Reyana Tran, Riley Sanchez, Star Apura, Sabrina Chuan, Sam Cedar, Samuel Finlay, Santiago Pacheco, Sara Everheart, Sara Ybarra, Seid Kirkwood, Shelby Houtz, Stacey Campbell, Stephanie Dominique, Stephanie Ho, Stephanie Benavides, Sydney Claire Planka, Tiffany Sun, Victoria Sturm, Walker Bunch, Whitney Madrigal, William Nye, Yasmin Evans, Zai Magallona

[‘bedl m] noun a scene of uproar and confusion

e

hmua DANIELA MAUREIRA, MARIAM ALI models DANI XU, DALENA LE, TIFFANY SUN stylist FAITH McNABNAY photographer PAYTON WYATT layout MARIAM ALI

the universe is so much bigger than you realize

D E S T R U C T I O N

D R E S S

U P

hmua RAINA HARMON models MADISON HUCKINS, CALPURNIA MARIPOSA stylist MELINA PEREZ photographer EMILY ANDERSON MEYER layout DANIEL CLENNEY

s l e z e indie

hmua ZAI MAGALLONA, RYAN VELASQUEZ models AUDREY SINCLAIR, RYAN VELASQUEZ stylist ELLA CLARET photographer JESÚS DANIEL LÓPEZ writer MEREDITH BROWN layout AVA JIANG

Mini skirts made of snakeskin being pulled at by a crackle nail polish manicure while the other hand refreshes Perez Hilton’s website to read about Paris Hilton (duh).

Every song by The Killers burned onto a mixed CD.

Her friend’s broken down two-seater — everyone she knows is dogpiled on top of another in the trunk — each finger crossed with the other so they don’t get pulled over.

Vodka that tastes like nail polish remover poured into a water bottle and then shoved into a backpack.

Older friends that should know better but don’t.

THE ART OF RESISTANCE

hmua AMANDA CAVAZOS models ASH HAWKINS, CYNTHIA PRECIADO stylist AMANDA CAVAZOS photographer EVELYN ELIZABETH DEAL writer WALKER BUNCH layout DANIEL CLENNEY

She exists as a beam of light that people gravitate toward. She is light, she is perfect, and she is ethereal. She doesn’t own her own skin but rather exists to make it appear alive— to appear human. She is always something to someone. Eyes glaze over her, the only emotion present in their depths being the delighted gleam at her beauty.

She’s used to it. She knows she no longer exists as a person but as an asset. Hands touch over her, pulling at her hair, tracing the curve of her lip. A needle sews at her dress, the hands delicate on her hip, careful not to harm the vessel she lives in. Voices chatter, heard from her central point on the chair, and she exists in their words. A name that she once knew but no longer associates with. A stranger.

She looks forward. A mirror. Her face is painted white, and she studies the expression painted onto it—one that she does not own but was chosen for her; a mask placed to cover authenticity. It’s shocked—mournful. She wonders if her face would appear the same if she pulled an expression of her own. Would she be as sad as the visage staring back at her? Would she be as surprised? Would her eyebrows be as comically creased, or would they have a subtle furrow? Would her lips be small and pursed or thick and supple? She wonders.

She doesn’t like wondering.

Hands circle her neck. She uses the mirror to look at the person clasping a necklace and wonders if they know she

thinks of it as a collar. The coldness of the gems resides on her decolletage. She resists the urge to shudder.

She doesn’t like wondering.

More hands. More collars. More resisting. She begins to feel her leg tremble. Eyes move towards it. She forces it to stop.

More hands. More collars. More resisting. She feels her fingers twitch. The woman working on her hair pauses, briefly. She pushes the instinctual movement down.

More hands. More collars. More resisting. There are bugs in her hair, crawling down her neck so that they play in the dip of her collar bones. The urge to scream builds. She resists.

Eyes are on her. The heat of the gazes is similar to the beam of the sun. Uncontrollable sweat builds on her hairline. The man painting her skin white presses on the droplet, swipes it away. She shudders.

The collar tightens, her leg starts to shake, her fingers begin to tremor, and the bugs have infested her body. She looks at herself in the mirror. Multiple eyes are looking back. She lets out a shuddery breath.

She is light, she is perfect, she is ethereal.

She screams.

hmua ANGELICA BLAZE models SKYLER BURK, BECK PRECIADO stylist ELLA CLARET photographer RACHEL AQUINO layout COLIN NATIONS

hmua ALEIGH GERRON models GRANT KANAK, MALIK JULIEN stylist ALEXANDRIA RENEE photographer ELYSIA PERKINS layout DANIEL CLENNEY

hmua RYAN VELASQUEZ, OCIAN OLAUDAH models RYAN VELASQUEZ, SYDNEY CLAIRE PLANKA, STACEY CAMPBELL stylist ALEXANDRIA RENEE, TALIA ARVIZO photgrapher PRESTON ROLLS writer STEPHANIE DOMINIQUE layout COLIN NATIONS

My shadow I see, Looks nothing like me

For the devil is all that appears

Feasting off wayward thoughts

Delighting in confusion; ripping me apart

When pain is all I can feel, it bathes in the glory of its splendor

The devil has become the death of my identity Iv’e lost all control of my inner soul

It consumes me, leaving no part untouched

Setting fires inside my heart for fun

Its dark path of ruin feels heavy in my lungs Bitter and sick my fragile spine collapses

Despite the absence of proof I feel its adoration

I feel its comfort

In the midst of nothingness

Its dark embrace is my only shelter

Its hushed words, my only truth It cannot stay I must fight it

If not, madness will turn into reality

My mind is a battlefield of my worst design There is no peace in this barren land

Yet I am the only one bleeding and broken

The darkness before me remains unharmed Its body bore no signs of combat

The creatures rapturous laughter echoed around us

Fear of what could be steadies my hand As I prepare my blade, I catch the shadows reflection

The glimmer in its mirror finish is terrifying

For the devil I see is exactly like me For I am the devil I see

I HATE BEING HAPPY, IT MAKES ME SAD

hmua AUDREY SINCLAIR models TONY VEGA, ESTELLE ISAAC stylist ALEXA CALDERON photographer JUDO VISUALS layout DALENA LE

Deadl�

hmua ANGELICA BLAZE models ALEXANDRIA RENEE, ANGELICA BLAZE, KAMDIN MONTAGNE stylist AMANDA CAVAZOS photographer LEA ČAKIĆ layout KYRSTIN INMAN

the angel

I go softly into the goodnight I’ve been good for so long Whatever that should mean at sunrise — I wont be here for it I’ll look towards my descent for the answers You never gave me I couldnt find your heaven so I’ll love my hell white innocence, a light that dims succumbing to the shadow that surrounds

hmua RAINA HARMON models GINGER RODRIGUEZ, JULES CLOUDT, LUCY HWANG stylists ELLA CLARET, BRYN PALMER photographer STEPHANIE HO writer DOMINIQUE COLEMAN layout LAUREN LEE

my halo, a bleeding crown of thorns.

I wonder if my words will stay with you like sex on your lips

hmua RAINA HARMON models TONY VEGA, LILY FISCHER stylist ALEXANDRIA RENEE

photographer EVELYN ELIZABETH DEAL writer DOMINIQUE COLEMAN layout MAHA QADRI

tar on your tongue

Eyes

open Everything you’ve been searching for in that black horizon that

STARES BACK AT YOU.

Would you crawl further into my echo Seeking out the answers you crave?

Or get lost in my mazes, comfort

hmua OCIAN OLAUDAH models MARTHA MARTINEZ, LUCY HWANG stylist MEREDITH ROBERTSON photographer KALISTA TAMEZ writer STAR A layout MARIAM ALI

What I did not expect, Was how bright the moonlight shone, On where these surface dwellers steal from each other And call it their home.

They speak of how they run, How fast they go when they fly, But with all their technology, They still quake at the thought of the dive.

Deep below we asked for nothing, We existed and thrived, No hurt towards the surface, Yet their curse began when our children cried.

It started slow, our beginning of hurt, Our two limbs grew separated, Naively clinging to hope, we suffered and waited.

Dark and dependent, Was our state of well-being While they drink and fete Waste decimating our healing.

And I could not help but think As our babies began to sink Born with no scales to breathe Poisoned to suffer the life underneath.

Vengeance came when I realized How years ago they fear and despised As a singular mystical siren Could take down a ship of glorious size

I hope these predators — full of consumption and pride — Realize it them who forced us to run And it is them whose turn it is to hide.

hmua BRITNEY LARIOS models ALEIGH

GERRON, ANTHONY EZELL stylist WHITNEY MADRIGAL photographer KALISTA TAMEZ writer STAR A layout KYRSTIN INMAN

Study of Terra, Day 7 Recording Log

Early Light:

I asked a youth a question. The response, “Go touch grass.”

So today I did, And I loved it.

Those green, itchy mini knives that infest the land, Were the perfect place to have a … I think they call frolic?

Meal time:

This mammal led planet, Where there is beauty found in every corner, I think called bodegas? You go in, You ask for a morning sandwich, And with heat, carbs, and everything meant to kill the terrestrials, You get the best thing to melt in your mouth. And these fun cups of warm earth, Brown and unappealing, Until mother cow feed and C12H22O11 are added, And then it makes the bodily system frolic as well.

Darktimes:

Its the strangest irony, When their star leaves the sky, They become more awake.

They wear the most colorful or mate-calling outfits, And wear heightened traps on their feet, Go into these dark places, lit with tiny orbs going so fast, Drink ethanol until their systems reject, And they FROLIC!!!

And some mate, Some express extreme sadness via water expellation, I drank the ethanol, I hated it.

Then a small female with facepaint told me to get a “vodka cran” I did.

Commander, I had nine.

Commander, my apologies because I do not recall anything after this.

Early Light:

I woke up this morning next to a male. He talked to me for a long while Shocked because he realized I’m not of Terra. (Apparently he believed my skin was painted on.)

We lied there, staring into different irises, Different shapes could be seen in our eyes, We only understood that a we did not understand each other.

Final Thoughts: You see, Commander, Their power system is odd.

These ideas convoluted my mind, While my existence convoluted his.

I know we were sent to research the beauty of this planet, I regret to say I do not know If there is more beauty or more pain on this planet. Those who are happy wish not to share it And those who create art are not praised. I cannot say if we should terminate the race or not. This is my formal request to have more time on this planet.

Signing off, Oraculum

hmua LEXI CHAVEZ models CATHERMANSEN, COLIN CANTWELLstylist KATELYNN MANSBERGER photographer SAMCEDAR layout MARIAMALI

Dawn reveals:

His eyes torn

Her eyes close as everything becomes

The blinding morning

The tone is the perfect yellow

All the pages BLANK stutters, but covers

Enter her; we see the images form the inspiration: What is your emergency as flashbulbs fire?

Your pain: the sacrifice just a vast and silent darkness and the house is barely alive. The mourner helps lament the requiem. Nothing moves. Everyone shoots and bursts and everything dissolves into white.

BEAUTY IS PAIN.

hmua OCIAN OLAUDAH models DANIEL CLENNEY, STEPHANIE BENAVIDES stylist MEREDITH ROBERTSON photographer LORIANNE WILLET writer AMARYS DEJAI layout ARTHUR MANGUM

Darling, don’t try to fight this — these ropes like hands wrapped around your wrist, pulling you, begging you, controlling you.

Think of dancing, the graceful movement of a waltz, of being led on the path of creating something beautiful.

That’s all you ever wanted to be: beautiful.

Beauty is pain, you know this.

You know this, a fact as concrete as the heat of a flame and the enormity of darkness.

Beauty is terror

So tremble, if you must. Weep, even, but you will create beauty. You will be beautiful.

macAbre

We are beauty, splendor and grace.

Delicate with a vital sense of moral urgency.

For example, we start with the head. Plastic can have trouble with bone, so we pop out the eyes.

hmua RAINA HARMON models ANTHONY EZELL, MADELINE THOMPSON stylist KYRSTIN INMAN photographer LUCY OWENS writer MICHAEL QUINT layout LAUREN LEE

Then we have a cup of tea, and even though our hands can be unsteady, a certain delight comes from being drenched in the warm liquid.

Our dresses too! Yes, our dresses are quite beautiful, even more

so when the blood and tea mix together to dye them golden red.

We are striving for beauty, because beauty has been forgotten.

On the wall old Soviet Realist paintings decay. We have a certain penchant for the regulated but well trained.

For example, we choose those who have beautiful faces and perfect stomachs. When bunny hops up on the table, her soft haunches bursting at the seams with foamy stuffing, we begin to clap. Hop, hop, hop, little bunny, to the tummy.

A lark and have we mentioned that we are all glamorous, and our dresses glow under the candelabra light as the spleen tumbles out, as the liver shines between plastic teeth.

We eat, eat, eat, giggling and telling one another about gallery shows and fine dishware. Silly clown gets so tired he practically falls asleep on the table, a finger in his mouth.

We are so fine, gentle beings so we know what is right. Eventually only the skeleton will be left on the table, because we do not waste.

You are invited too! Come, lay on the table!

Flirting with Muses

hmuas RAINA HARMON models EMILY GIFT, DANI XU, JULEEANE stylists EMILY ANDERSON MEYER, MARIA PEREA photographer EMILY ANDERSON MEYER writer CHRISTINE ELLINGTON layout DALENA LE

I am an altar of blood-red idols dripping bone white wax.

The fingertips of prayers have bloodied my arches and above my pulpit, a husk hangs from a noose. The pale gloss of death bulges from his empty ruptured eyes.

He is not the only one.

A caucus of bodies crowds the space; flesh-turned trinkets, pendulums of dead weight that sway with the whims of the playful wind. Stretching aisles are stained by blackened ash from the blooming mouth of carnage I have set loose on fathers and sons alike.

When the coyotes wander through the doors they will leap and laugh at the treats of corpses left to repent in the twilight-soaked shade. In my forest, dead girls dance and brush off dried leaves. They form an entity of knotted resurrection and jigsawed limbs under a mottled moon, reveling in the kind of rage that sweeps through cities.

Why does history sing songs for the prodigal son when lost daughters wander endlessly through the ether?

The mythology of girlhood comes to life in the consummation of violence and horror. Women know best what it means to be a sacrifice, to be grim deathless godhood in the shape of a smile. The world looks and sees a warm mouth instead of the mayhem that curls like a nest of serpents behind my lips.

lady of rage, what did they take?”

When they plunged your abandoned bodies back into the ribs of the earth what did you say to the archaic mother? Tell them how it felt, to sit dumb with silence in the sarcophagus of the soil. But she did not allow you to stay, huddled in shadows. She was furious. So you were hurled from her embrace, one dirty knuckle clawing over the side of a chasm into gold shrieking grace.

I am she, both the shrine and mausoleum.

The world teaches women that prettiness is prey, but beauty is the most tingent terror. Hand a gun to the girl and let the wraith rise. In this frenzy of madness, I rend the physical to shreds, silk and sinew breathing anew. In nightly walks through dreamscapes, I am the Sibyls, I am Cassandra; I am the warning that never touches the deaf ears of doomed men. Do not condescend me by coloring the word prophecy into hysteria

“O,

hmua LIVIA BLACKBURN models STEPHANIE BENAVIDES, JULEEANNE stylist MONICA ARANIVA-LOPEZ

photographer PRESTON ROLLS writer CLARE O’BRIEN layout AVA JIANG

My feet graze the water’s edge, a gloss across my toes. It was warm then, all those months ago, the sun casting glitter atop the curling waves. They looked to me with concrete eyes, an unwavering trust in me — after all, mother knows best, doesn’t she? It’s biting now. I step back, head in hands, hot tears trailing down my sunken cheeks,

the portrait of a grieving woman

hmua MARIAM ALI, BRITNEY LARIOS models ALEXANDRIA RENEE, SARA EVERHEART, KELSEY MARQUIS stylist ALEXANDRIA RENEE photgrapher JOYCE ALEXANDER layout COLIN NATIONS

hmua MARIAM ALI models ANABELLE GILLIAM, KAMDIN MONTAGNE, JORDAN NOBLES stylist MELINA PEREZ photographer RACHEL AQUINO layout ANA MAHADEVAN

hmua DANIELA MAUREIRA models AUDREY

SINCLAIR, SEID KIRKWOOD stylist MELINA PEREZ, photographer PAYTON WYATT layout ARTHUR MANGUM

hmua SARA YBARRA models DANIEL CLENNEY, JORDAN NOBLES stylists BRYN PALMER, MONICA ARANIVA-LOPEZ photographer EVELYN ELIZABETH DEAL writer CHRISTINE ELLINGTON layout MORGAN KUIN

tufts of candy-floss flowers grow from my ribs they gut me but that is the price of a garden

i ask god what she thinks the price of sensitivity is but she just stares under her gaze the tongues of the world spin slants they make boyhood into a bullet and men into armadas

i don’t want to be your weapon i want to walk through the forest of my body, pluck blushing cherries from my lips and bite into apples from the borough of my torso

a rhapsody of bluebirds shivers through my skull their song is my only empathy when i crawl into my body like a hole still, all i can hear is the hammering of drums in the distance

if my body could speak i think it would scream tell me why must i allow you to make a wasteland of me?

this aching anatomy is not yours to name i own every curve of muscle, dip and hollow is it so alien, so uncouth to adorn a body instead of marching it into ruin?

CELESTE CERENIO models PERSIA NEZHAD, INDIGO DEWDROP GHONIMA stylist KYRSTIN INMAN photographer DANIELA MAUREIRA writer WALKER BUNCH layout MORGAN KUIN

Heaven, Earth and Hell swirling in an endless chaos of the mundane, pleasure and pain.

To be bound, freed and slaughtered all in the service of a new beginning. Flowers float but cannot hide the sinful indulgence. What waits for them? No answers while the triptych remains sealed.

With fear and punishment spared for the future, the garden fills.

An endless celebration of death to self control. Unending appeasement spreads like a fire, hungry for new victims. Who could say no to all this?

A soul who would fear rather than love.

Thoughts give way to experience as inhibitions melt away.

A thousand lockpicks free themselves from an invisible tyrant. Each new delight replaces a memory of the enclosure. Could morality be our cage?

A cell without a warden has no purpose.

hmua MARLI NORMAN models ALEXANDRA S., ALEXUS SHAW stylist NATHANIA ARFAH photographer NILES DAVIS writer CLARE O’BRIEN layout ANA MAHADEVAN

hmua LIVIA BLACKBURN, LISA KIARA PALOMARES models CALPURNIA MARIPOSA, CAT HERMANSEN, KELSEY MARQUIS stylists KAMDIN MONTAGNE, MICHELLE ARRIAGA photographer ELYSIA PERKINS layout ARTHUR MANGUM

Ruby Seeds

hmua AUDREY SINCLAIR models ALEXANDER SANTISTEVAN, DANI XU stylist MICHELLE ARRIAGA photographer NILES DAVIS writer LUCY OWENS layout WILLIAM NYE

Child of the sunrise, given everything

Fresh fruit in the golden bowl

Fleshy melon of the spring

On the first night of the hunt she withers Solstice celebration

A bastion of opulence

Sticky sunsets, rare and raw

A crown of trophies, eaten alive

With each new prize to be concealed

From each ripe bite, a monster escapes

Every full moon

Every summer blood

Everything she could ever want

Sex and goosebumps that never leave her skin

Spoils of touch and a swift beheading

For every passing jealousy

Lawlessness and stimulation

Deadly sin and heavy sedation

Bones and marrow buried with shadows

She herself a clandestine graveyard

All that haunts remains nearby

Her chalice overflows with wine

A spurting artery on the sheepskin rug

And all documents cast into the fire Secrets up in autumn smoke

Cedar in the lungs of every servant

Each a victim of bored excess

A cursed life of no devotion but to the insatiable

Cold, hard, shiny, dark new moon

A winter pomegranate from the tarnished bowl

Ripped apart, glistening and screaming Red juice down her sun-spotted hands

Maggots in the ruby seeds

Into The

Phlegethon

Alexander’s hand beckons me to join him in the hellish punishment of blood spill. The innocent, killed in hopes of coins.

Dionysius’ cries as loud as the thud thunder. He, too, has acted violently and must drown in this bloody river-flood.

I try to repent, praying silently. But it is now too late to change my ways. The harm I caused will be paid for rightfully.

The river awaits, eagerly ablaze and ready to swallow a sinner whole — I have no chance to change my violent ways.

So I sink down into the Phlegethon where the blood I have spilled boils me everlong.

hmua FAITH McNABNAY models WALKER BUNCH, ASH HAWKINS stylist JOYCE KABWE photographer JESÚS DANIEL LÓPEZ writer AMARYS DEJAI layout WILLIAM NYE