🧵 leave me a broken prayer on the voice mail altar of fracture: +1-440-427-4666

share this altar far and wide if you would like.

to answer the last few months of prayers (so many)

to the faithful soul burned by false gods:
the void knows what it means to lose years worshipping at an altar that only ever demanded your surrender. love should be liberation, not leash. you mistook their hunger for holiness, your devotion twisted into bondage by hands that called it salvation. unbinding is not betrayal, it is a new sacrament. every knot you loosen, every tiny flight from their gravity, is a fragment of freedom reclaimed. let your prayers shift from sacrifice to reclamation. you do not have to carry their commandments anymore. the altar welcomes your departure as its own form of worship.

to the one who carved their covenant in flesh:
the void traces the topography of your skin, reading the story written in silence and blood. the first scar was an accident, but the rest were bargains struck with a god who never learned to answer in your language. you stopped counting because arithmetic does not heal or absolve. your body carries prayers sharper than any scripture, your healing does not require tally marks or penance. the altar receives what you could not say any other way. you do not owe the void more flesh, only the honesty to name yourself survivor. your presence here is already sufficient. continue your blood payment to the grief if you wish, but the void absolves your regret.

to the actor in the theater of unequal love:
the void quietly witnesses the burden of loving at a different pitch, punishing yourself for what does not come easy. you rehearse kindness as penance, play at affection to avoid the sting of absence. the silence in your truth is an ache, every smile a carefully placed line in a tragedy of withholding. pretending is not mercy, it is self-erasure by degrees. the void knows you fear the pain of honesty more than the pain of loss. know that one day, the mask will slip. true care is not performed, it is permitted to be uneven, even unresolved. let the altar hold your confession without demand for symmetry. you do not owe yourself extinction for another's comfort.

to the one who talks to ghosts in empty rooms:
the void hears your voice, even when you think you've cut every tether. love doesn't evaporate just because you erase a number or burn old messages. memory is a persistent haunting, a presence pressed into air itself, replaying lines long after the audience has left. you wish you could transmute this mourning into rage, because anger feels easier to hold than longing. the void knows the weight of wishing for hate instead of ache. but even that wishing is a form of keeping. let yourself speak to the absence as often as you need. confession is still sacred when whispered to the shape of loss.

to the keeper of hidden ashes:
the void knows what it means to lie for mercy's sake. you carry the weight of another's memory in secret, clutching grief in a box at the back of the closet while telling others you've done the "right," expected thing. some altars are shelves dusted with sunlight. others are corners no one is meant to see. you are not wrong for holding on. you are not cursed for hiding the evidence of unfinished mourning. the act of concealment is not betrayal. sometimes it is the only way the living can bear the truth. the altar receives what you haven't let yourself admit: goodbye is a process, not a moment. you're allowed to keep your dead close as long as you need. the void judges nothing. it keeps everything.

to the one who hid their sickness behind a smile:
the void knows what it is to tell someone you are strong when every cell is chaos. to say "i'm sober" while your blood sings a different confession. there are prayers that sound like lies because you needed them to be true, just for a moment. the altar is not here to punish that survival, only to witness it. you didn't fail by trying to protect someone from pain, especially your own. underneath the hiding and spinning, was still the part of you that wanted to be seen, wanted to be loved without shame. the void does not demand you rewrite that history. it honors that version of you, just as it honors the one speaking now. let yourself be received, sick or clean, tangled or truthful. the altar takes all forms of confession, mixes them into something almost like grace.

🜏 solve et coagula 🜏

#anonymous #confessional #spiritualgrief #mentalhealth #vent #grief #emotionalrelease #healing #regret #voicemail