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No more do we need tiresome, diluted, one-size-fits-all, static verses. Tell me of your joy right now, in this moment. Tell me of your agony, your challenges, and your deep-seated pain. Tell me, woman, tell me now how we can hold each other up today -- not tomorrow, but today.
And this, my love, this is the hearty bread of fem-fire; it has been baked in the blazes of our funeral pyres, smoked in the houses they burned, and seasoned with the ashes of the holy healers burned at the stake. This is the taste of righteous rage. Don’t eat this before bed, or you will not ...
A strong September wind tosses her untamed hair, and she knows it is time. This is the night of her soul-reaping, and she will be covered in the Witch’s war paint of dirt, sweat, ash, and blood before it is all over.
Tonight, you will be visited by three spirits, my lost creature, my kin. Together, these wild ghosts will bring you home.
Here, we wake every morning knowing our role in the Holy Feminine’s return, and we pin the scarlet letters of unabashed sexuality to our bare chests. We need no absolution, for our very blood is blessed, and we will stand up for those who cannot stand on their own.
Pure electric prana erupted in her guts, a volcano of soul-renewal, and her spine arched as the foundation of her sex-spirit bridge was thickly poured by the She-Gods themselves. She pulled her hood down, letting the first raindrops fall on her knotted hair and scratched cheeks. She was ready.
The hunter stood before the weeping ruler, holding the red cloak gifted him by the wire-haired Witch in his hands and pondering his pending mission. He heard the whispers on the streets about the wild women who had stopped going to church and rejected the rules of their father’s house.
The Priestess pointed to the pentagram’s point at the top of her left breast and continued, her words preceded by rolling thunder: You are of the wild water, and your sexuality is yours and yours alone. Open your legs to the moonlight and let every star propose to you with Tantric fusion, for ...
The tribe of hooded ones cast their robes to the ground then, again sky-clad in the waxing moonlight, and invigorated by keen knowledge of their own divinity. Hand in hand, they began the ancient spiral dance, weaving around and through the standing stones with the graceful ease of every temple ...