ππ₯π’ ππ’π± The centipede's tendrils are little leviathans swimming up my spine. I reach for the white paste, the stickiness that stands between me and the entranceβs cocoon wall. It carves itself through the roof of the cave, extending outwards like a fungus net that cannot be bothered. It molds to the shape of my hands, then breaks off. Docile like Father. I'm afraid of portals because they remind me of sphincters, tight and wet, contracting muscle ready to push me out.
the wet
the wet
the wet
ππ₯π’ ππ’π± The centipede's tendrils are little leviathans swimming up my spine. I reach for the white paste, the stickiness that stands between me and the entranceβs cocoon wall. It carves itself through the roof of the cave, extending outwards like a fungus net that cannot be bothered. It molds to the shape of my hands, then breaks off. Docile like Father. I'm afraid of portals because they remind me of sphincters, tight and wet, contracting muscle ready to push me out.