warrior woman rising
The Death Priestesses are the chosen ones who swim in this chaotic soup of righteous rage and power-hunger willingly, who do not fear the breakdown, the loss, and the dark void of absolute nothingness as others do.
You’re here now, and that’s all that matters. Put on the bone-and-antler crown I made for you, and I’ll grow my horns long to match yours.
When I was good, I was a sensitive and sweet-blooded Witch indeed. My ethics were impeccable, and my magick was so diamond white it could blind an angel.
Their eyes will get wild, and their hair will come undone. They’ll lift their chins and dig their manicured nails into their palms.
Open your mouth wide so the fem-fire inside you can climb your tongue and ride your breath straight into the rooms where attack-plans are made and signs painted with slurs are hand-crafted out of thick, religion-validated and institutionalized racism and politically sanctioned, xenophobic sludge.
The scared little girl in me, the hurt, abandoned, and abused teenager, the reckless, and out-of-control young adult, my Maiden Goddess, all had to die last night so that my Mother Goddess can be reborn to this new beginning of my life as a Wife.
Alas, you know as well I do, Sister, that the real prayers are not said in such sacred vacuums. Once, with legs spread in the final stages of labor, the midwife’s voice caught and her face went pale in such a way that I thought my precious baby doomed. I begged to every deity I knew, promising ...