Effy Winter births poetry from the most sickly and holy places, every piece dripping with visceral duality of erotic religion and gothic romance, like a plague doctor struggling to decide whether to heal or infect others. Winter’s words hang heavy on the tongue, as all great things do, like a mouthful of blood but you can never stop drinking. Every syllable is an intentional pearl, a necklace of work that echoes a lover’s gift and a noose. Winter’s work reads like a vampiric opera, full of macabre theatre and glorious Sapphic worship. I have yet to fall in love with such a powerful voice and point of view as spellbinding as this. With the skillfulness of a necromancer, Winter rises you up from your darkest place and commands you to dance in her legion of deliciously sweet demons. She is a literary powerhouse emerging like a murder of crows and her poetry will beg you to let her kill you as an artistic sacrifice. It is easily some of the best poetry out there today.
— Jenna Velez, Writer at Rose Quartz Journal



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