Rituals of Pain( or understanding why I can’ t let go) I pilgrimage to empty white spaces and pray to iceblue lakes of glassy spirits and opalite scales, give names and shapes to the furthest reaches of my suffering and
curate shrines for ghostly things that collapse my lungs, things I writhe under in a twisted midnight witchtrial; heavy shadows screeching familiar torture of scars I can still map, demons I can still name in airheaves filled with dust – a place of raw skin awoken with a nervesear that splits atoms in a cosmic feat of age-old darkness that is too bright to look at, of pain you can touch.
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