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[terrariumnet]

AUGUST

so we fall asleep in the dead dead summer heat

two bodies curled like question marks, your skin

warm and smoky against my cheek & the july flame

is still burning outside, kissing the horizon, staring

through our window, whispering across the floor

and up the side of our mattress, and i close my eyes

and pull your question mark body closer to mine and

feel your heartbeat beneath my hand and your heat

and the sun turning my eyelids red red red until the

flame turns to embers and then to ash and so july

ends in the dark.

heavily inspired by @lukecohoon

[terrariumnet]

It’s all intrusion in one way or another, breaking in to some place you shouldn’t be, her thoughts like a playground after dark now you’re old enough to know better. There’s a version of you, even if you don’t control it anymore. Even if it’s just a tangle of emotions wearing your old clothes in a house you haven’t visited in years, your face grinning and crying depending on the stars lining up or the last things said in a conversation you barely remember. It’s much safer, later, when the line’s gone dead and all those wounds have healed over to smoothness, less tangible ‘you’s out in someone else’s world, blurry at the edges like hazy clouds in august. No more messages or calls or I dreamt about you last night, just a faded signpost pointing to ‘she’s not thinking about you anymore.’

- 7pm, Tuesday Evening | lhr

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10/5

I don’t like my voice; full of cracked bones and nerves unfit for purpose,

Wild untruths and wilder honesty, the alcohol slur of every moan and sharp hiss, a tarantella melody of my youthfulness,

My unlovelyness,

A dread touch of a hand on my shoulder dipping to the place my waist rests beside my spine, shucked off to the beat of a song I don’t know the name of,

Spun between arms of friends-not-lovers, barricading naked skin and bad ideas,

And all the night belongs to me, even when I’m begging for sunlight

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A faerie introduces himself. Then, holding out a hand, asks, “And your name, please?”

And, like a fool, you give it to him.

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Too many white lies and white lines

///

Tag us in your responses with @terrariumnet or #terrariumnet for a feature

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Water springs out of the Mulberry tree at Dinoša, Montenegro. For the last two decades, during the spring floods, the water has been running out of this old mulberry tree in a village of Dinoša in Montenegro.

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Concept: Angels don’t have to wear their halos on their head. 

Turn the halo into a gold collar. 

Shrink it down into a ring or bracelet. 

Turn it into a gold septum. 

Sacred nipple piercings. 

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Things Women In Literature Have Died From, Mallory Ortberg

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Truth

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carolyn & the superbloom | kmp

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capax lux | kmp from @thewindwardnet‘s cycle iv

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spring and the pansies on my windowsill died / purple, as withered veins on a wrist

- persephone musings #1 | lr

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a lungful of salt. a lungful of smoke and sand and the name of the girl you don’t want to think about, all taking root in the cave of your chest waiting for the pressure to turn them to diamond

let’s go back to the beach and pretend it’s just the sugar we’re craving. it’s just seabreeze leaving us starved for warmth.

- conch shell | lr

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worship | kmp

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9/1

this shouldn’t be so hard. but nothing I’ve ever written could feet neatly into a white square and radiate beauty. I like macabre. I like viscera. I swallow my own blood and bile and I wear scars on my skin. were the classics not messy, ugly affairs? didn’t Silvia breathe death and stick her head in an oven? didn’t Virginia wade into the water because the oxygen was burning up her lungs. what happened to the darkness. what happened to 2008 when our skin was open for wounds and we were waving knives like it was trendy.

look. I don’t want to glamourise the black mood of my soul but it’s the only one I have, scar tissue and nightmare and needles to the nerves in the brain. sometimes I am darker than a black hole and I am far hungrier. I wish I could take the sunlight into myself and be pretty in perfect doses but what I do is spill haphazardly across the page. I’m dependant on gaba and I like to drink gin.

I believe in the power of the soul. anima, eudaimonia, transcendence beyond the dark creature I can be. I have an outstretched hand. I have a diary of second tries. I will bring whatever good I can to the universe. but someday for good or bad a little girl is going to make an idol out of me and you better be prepared for the fallout.

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i

violent things trade off my discord

mistakes from either my gentle heart

or shattered bones

ii

birds take off from the mountain ledges

fragile and fearless

and i compare all my bruises

to falling or flight

iii

i cut my leg on the razor in the shower this morning

blood and water and steam;

i guess good things don’t come to people with feathers sticking from their spine

vices | lr