skinned fox

Magazine

from the mind of:

ivy page

Ft. Ivy P

CreakyFloor Co.

Editor-in-Chief

IVy P

Managing Editor

Ivy P

Content Director

IVY P

Art Direction

Ivy p

Photographers

Ivy P

Contributing Writers

Ivy P

Special Thanks to

exestential dread

overwhelming compulsions to connect

It’s nothing if not motivating!

And I sure hope it works!

https://thecreakinyourfloorboads.blog/

Thanks!

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contents...

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From the Editor

Ivy Li, girl in the world. All I know is to write, write, write. I write best at night

I know you didn’t know that till now. Tell me, dear reader;

How do you impact others?

What would you do anything for?

Have you felt inhuman? What made you feel that way?

Where do you sit with other people?

Why are you answering this?

What are you a product of?

https://thecreakinyourfloorboads.blog/

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Ivy Li

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Ivy Li

Just Desserts

Ghastly girls

Ode to the ghastly girls. Myself included. Girls of blades and

and fruit juice. Ghastly girls leaving stains on one another. Tiresome sleepovers and pulling of hair. Rotting together and grinning through yellow teeth, we hold each other, pick each other’s scabs, and eat them on strawberries and cream. I hold you, your crumbling pieces. I will always love you. As you will love me I hope, in some small way. To the ghastly girls; which all of us are, you and I, the planet to haunt and moan and adore and linger and love forever. To every ghastly girl that has floated away under a sheet draped over her head, and to the ones that stayed, haunting. Specters and silhouettes in my doorway at night with huge hungry eyes. When you’ve been half dead your whole life, my ghastly ghoulish girls, you forget what it is you ever used to eat. Fill all your corporeal needs, meek and lame as they are; eat boys, eat fruit, eat words you regret, drink milk with cloves, eat your mother one day. Your spectral diet should be more forgiving. Whatever you touch, absorb it, take it, and never let it out. Oh, my dearest, most ghastly girls no amount of sage or prayer could have me rid of you and god forbid it could.

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In: Home

Lovers nest

Matted with feather and satin

Hot in these summer months

We twist and writhe

And leave little tears in the sheets

Two lovers in their nest

You lay beside me

Breathing

I lay beside you

Turning, huffing

Aching in our lovers nest

Amongst lace and cotton

On bone and gristle

We wheeze in our torrid air

There are ants in my bed

They have taken parts of me already

Into the bowels of a home

Meant for a mother to nourish

I am still unsure as to whether it was The sweetness

Or the rot

That lured them into the stale comfort I am entombed in

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Ivy Li

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?#%&!(_)

Throttling forward... Through and through and through and through. Total, complete inertia

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Ivy Li

Ft... The illusive, the mysterious.... girl... in her room.

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Chapter 1. boys

To crumple panties into a palm,

To scrutinise,

To leave windows sealed,

To linger,

To the girls under our filthy nails. We will mock your peach fuzz, and yearn for ours to grow.

A boy, unkind, wanted nothing more than power. He held it already though he refused to make pace to his goal. That is what he owns. I am what he owns. I belong to the masses. He is not one. He is the one that grabs my thigh where I like, he is the one that pulls my hair, he is the one that pushes me to tears, he is the one that will never forgive, he is the one that sets dogs on my heels. He is every boy who has been hard under the covers and resented us for it.

I have lain my body to rest, 9 years ago, and awoken encased in syrup. Neglecting to acknowledge this, my announcement is made. The voice that echoes is not my own, too smothered, caramelised to be. I was dowsed in honey, bathed in molasses, and stuffed with fruit preserves that best appeal. It made my body slow and enticing. Beautiful to the point of disgrace. And oh, how terrible it is to be delightful. The syrup remains, only bitter. Molasses now.

Denounce the part of you he sees his mother in. Whether this means plucking out your eyes, wiping off your lipstick, buckling down, and souring your womb. Whatever trickles down my leg and into the ground shall fertilise the earth beneath. This boy will work on this soil. He will dig it up, build on top of it, curse it for never offering the nutrients he needs for his garden, for him to become a man. He didn't hear me when I said that the garden bed was mine. Mine to rest my weary head upon. Mine to decompose in. If he only waited he would see that I was in fact full of things too decadent to imagine. I just couldn't give it up until I had been laid to rest in that very garden bed.

And he will stay there. Settled as always. As here is his. And I am no longer my own once more. I have died already, my flesh sapped into the soil. He gnashes his bounties between his awful teeth. I feel parts of me burn as he digests the fruits of my earth.

As he sleeps, as his body rests, I awake, liquidated. I am smaller than I have been, small enough to travel into his bloodstream. His heart beats me. I have touched every inch of him inside and out. And by god, it is an honor.

Tomorrow, when he is a new man, as he is every day, I will learn that through all my goodness, I cannot sustain. Not a body as dwarfing as his. Not when he prefers the taste of meat to fruit.

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Ivy Li

the holding of hands

By drawing by Aj johnson

ft. Aj johnson, ivy p, and eloise

What a delightful thing. A community, an area of safety and ecstasy of it all. The heat of a friend’s back in an embrace. A shared cackle and wheeze. The thrill of learning everything they have and knowing there is always so much more. The human experience. A beautiful thing. Recently, I've been prescribed to sing happy birthday to one’s self 3 times a day. It is integral to the soul. Be born anew, whenever you feel you need it. No major rebirths, simply evolutions, naive in new ways each day. What a giddying thing. Folly. Foolishness. Alone, a laugh with one’s self, or in tandem. Ode to the holding of hands.

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Ivy Page

Something’s coming... I love you