Myths We Pretend Not to Believe
Amaryllis began writing when she was banned from buying books—she read them too fast. She writes from bed, in libraries, and on the Northern Line at rush hour. She believes in ghosts, difficult women, and writing that leaves a mark.
Curated by Amaryllis
There are girls who inherit trauma and girls who inherit porcelain. Amaryllis writes for the ones handed both and told to smile.
This is her corner of the gallery — less a shrine, more a pile of ash with a lipstick tube still warm in the centre. A collection of fables you were never supposed to read out loud. The kind whispered in girls’ bathrooms between vomit and mascara. The kind your mother would call dramatic and your therapist would call processing.
You’ll find saints here, yes — but they’re drunk, divorced, or bored to tears. Virgin Mary smokes menthols behind the petrol station. Joan of Arc’s ghost scrolls through old texts at 3am and doesn’t believe in closure.
These are the myths that stick:
That pain is poetic.
That he’ll come back.
That wanting too much makes you unlovable.
That silence is safe.
Amaryllis doesn’t offer resolutions. She offers stories with blood in the teeth and glitter under the nails.
She writes girls who burst into flame quietly.
Girls who beg to be seen, then flinch when you look.
Girls who leave notes under the skin, not the pillow.
This isn’t a section.
It’s a séance.
Read at your own risk.