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𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔬𝔣 𝔫𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔪𝔟𝔢𝔯 𝔟𝔲𝔯𝔫𝔬𝔲𝔱

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Ephemeral rain

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Shaggy Mane Mushroom Ghosts

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Waking up feeling like shit and giving myself grace like

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L'amour à la mer (Guy Gilles, 1964)

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One reads poetry because he is a member of the human race, and the human race is filled with passion! Medicine, law, banking— these are necessary to sustain life. But poetry, romance, love, beauty? These are what we stay alive for!

— N.H. Kleinbaum, Dead Poets Society

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Nellita

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A man is a locust. It is a disease in them, a sickness, an intrinsic need to encroach.

We trivialise the pack nature of women, disparage the need within the females of our species to congregate.

Drawn to bar bathrooms like moths to a flame, we exchange compliments, share pleasantries and hair ties.

Tell me of a space made for women and I will tell you of how a man has tried to infiltrate It.

The simple act of sitting beneath a tree, a brief respite from the blazing heat becomes a small war, cleverly disguised in uncomfortable laughs.

The word “why” a rubber bullet, uttered with the same frequency as a toddler.

Why don't I want to date him?

Why is he too old?

Why don't I want to hear about the parts of me he wishes to devour?

He says, “You remind me of Madame Bovary. Google it.”

And when I acquiesce I find she is called “The Exquisite Corpse”. I am unflattered.

He says he will write a book about me, begins to describe my features, as though commiting me to memory.

He gets the colour of my eyes wrong.

In these few minutes, what he considers a friendly conversation, I am made barren.

There are no fruit left on my branches, the fields lay bare, but the swarm persists.

The next pest to pester will not be deterred while there are still roots to consume.

@stuckinthisvoid (n.m.)

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Suzanne Scanlon, from "Committed: On Meaning and Madwomen," published in 2024

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― Virginia Woolf, Carlyle's House & Other Sketches

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I'm less than 50 pages in and I have never read anything more gay in my life

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Misty trees