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* leave me a broken prayer *
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****** +1-440-427-4666 *****
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the altar is open
not for conversation
for confession
for collapse
for whatever you need to bleed into the dark
the void is listening
it forgets what you whisper
speak, and be unmade
🜏 solve et coagula 🜏
🧵
these souls have offered themselves to the void, bleeding truths too heavy for the light. each confession carries its own weight of transformation.
to the sister learning survival's cruelest lessons: the void knows the price of visibility when safety is a luxury you can't afford. when the world offers only violence or invisibility, survival becomes its own form of prayer. what they call degradation, the ancient mysteries knew as sacrifice. the body is altar, the self i an offering to the hunger that keeps you breathing another day. the shame they heap upon you was never yours to carry. you transform pain into currency because that's what warriors do when the battlefield is their own flesh. the void receives your offerings without judgment, knowing that sometimes the most sacred act is simply continuing to exist. your survival is rebellion written in blood and breath.
to the bridesmaid who loves in shadow: loving from the shadows while wearing a bridesmaid's smile is its own kind of martyrdom. the void knows this particular ache, where devotion becomes self immolation. you hold her while she breaks over men who see her as conquest, and you become the safe harbor she returns to, never knowing she already rests in the arms that would cherish her. the performance of friendship when your heart screams truth is a special kind of hell. but consider this: every touch of comfort you offer, every moment you choose her happiness over your revelation, you love her more purely than those who demand to be loved in return. the void sees the sacred in your sacrifice, the holiness in your hidden devotion.
to the mother practicing silence: death makes liars of us all. the words you can't speak are already written in every moment you hold her. children know truth in ways adults forget, they feel the heaviness you carry before you speak it. she already knows something is changing, sees it in how you linger at bedtime stories, how you memorize her laugh. the void receives your practice runs and your silence equally. you think you're protecting her from pain, but you're teaching her that love sometimes means carrying impossible weights alone. when the words finally come, they won't destroy her. they'll show her that even facing the unthinkable, you chose honesty. that's the deepest love. that's the hardest prayer.
to the drowning man who surfaced: relief is not betrayal. drowning men don't apologize for breathing when they surface. the void understands the shame that follows freedom, how liberation can taste like failure. you spent twelve years performing a life that never fit, wearing a skin that wasn't yours, and now you mistake breathing room for selfishness. but love isn't supposed to be suffocation. your children will learn more from watching you become authentic than they ever would from watching you disappear inside a lie. the weekends where you can be real might teach them more about integrity than years of pretending ever could. sometimes the most loving thing is showing them what it looks like to choose truth over comfort.
your confessions feed something ancient that remembers when pain was prayer and breaking was becoming. the altar accepts all offerings, judges none, transforms everything.
what you've whispered here dissolves into the dark, becoming part of the endless hunger that drives all change. you've been heard. you've been unmade. now remake yourselves from the ashes of these truths.
the void forgets, but first it devours. and in that devouring, sometimes, we find what remains is stronger than what we lost.
🜏 solve et coagula 🜏
leave your broken prayer on my VM altar:
+1 (440) 427-4666
the altar is always open
the void is always listening
speak your truth into the fracture
let the dark unmake what no longer serves
🧵 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.
these new mirrors of the fracture surrendered fragments of themselves to the dark, speaking truths unbearable in daylight. each whispered admission reshapes them, marked forever by what they've revealed.
to the one burdened by irreversible regrets: the void hears your longing for a rewind button life doesn't grant. you speak of being forever broken, hiding in the shadow of your choices. but brokenness isn't an ending, it is a threshold. you forgive what can't be forgiven, and you offer kindness from the ruins of regret. that act alone carries redemption. you may never feel unbroken, but shattered glass can catch and refract new light more beautiful than the unbroken. the void consumes your grief and whispers back: even here, amidst the irreparable, you are still becoming. even now, your whispered goodbye leaves a trace of beauty in devastation. the beauty is always there, only decay and death allows for new growth. let that be your strength when nothing else remains.
to the wounded soul calling out to Jay: the void listens as you speak directly to someone who inflicted wounds dressed as protection. Your pain pulses clearly through your kindness and understanding. it is proof that your compassion remains unbroken, despite betrayal. you ache for Jay to comprehend the harm they've done, knowing the lesson might never land. your forgiveness and regret are bound together, a knot of sorrow and grace. remember this: clarity born from suffering is often sharper than the blade that caused it. the void recognizes your strength in kindness, your rebellion in gentleness. your farewell is not defeat. it's release. set down burdens that were never yours to carry.
lo siguiente ha sido traducido automáticamente, perdona si suena torpe o impersonal:
a quien ha sido malinterpretado por el mundo: el vacío escucha tu voz, firme y dolida, cargada con años de intentar ser amable, ser bueno, ser verdadero. hablas con suavidad y te llaman orgulloso. ofreces honestidad y lo toman por arrogancia. lo que ven no es quien eres, sino la sombra de su incomodidad reflejada en tu luz. no estás roto por pensar demasiado. tu razonamiento no es un defecto, es la estructura que te sostuvo cuando todo lo demás fallaba. no eres frío por intentar entender en vez de gritar. esa es una disciplina que pocos conocen. tu soledad es real, pero no es una condena, es el silencio después del eco, el aliento antes del renacimiento. el vacío no necesita que otros te comprendan, te recibe tal como eres. sobreviviste lo peor y aún elegiste vivir. eso no es debilidad, es la oración más feroz. el vacío olvida lo que dijiste, pero recuerda que hablaste.
these new prayers blend seamlessly into the darkness, where pain meets potential, regret whispers forgiveness, and endings quietly signal beginnings. the altar hears. the void unravels and reweaves.
🜏 solve et coagula 🜏
#anonymous #confessional #spiritualgrief #mentalhealth #vent #grief #emotionalrelease #healing #regret #voicemail
🧵 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
I am Gloomy Glenda slipping into Catatonia but you ARE the life and soul of party.
I will continue to pray to Barbelo and Sophia thank you very much
the void makes space for all forms of gnosis. Barbelo and Sophia know these depths intimately. they just wear different masks than my chaos does. catatonia isn't absence, it's the deepest inward movement, a pilgrimage through your own collapsing star. even Sophia had to fall from the fullness to understand the weight of creation, your stillness might be gathering those scattered sparks
i see it as funny how you call me "life and soul" when half my parties end in ego death. if i seem like "life and soul" it's only because i've learned to dance while drowning. but your stillness might be the truer path. that inward spiral where movement becomes meditation, where depression wears the mask of mystical experience because sometimes it is. honestly, you might have the better end of this deal.
the more i descend, the less the old names suffice. lately, i've found myself pulled deeper toward Khaos. Khaos calls louder than the prior names now. especially considering my recent personal work (not public).
Lilith and Lucifer continue to light my path, but Khaos is the dark, and the path, and the unraveling logic behind both. i mean as first cause... "who births meaning and devours it in the same breath". her (my own gendering) pull doesn't feel like discovery but like remembering. like finally admitting what was always devouring the foundations of every other truth. her pull feels... honest. maybe too honest. but i follow regardless
may your prayers to the mother who births without being born find whatever shadow or light serves your necessary descent. some of us dance at the party, others guard the threshold. both are holy work. i am here if you need help guarding that threshold, sometimes i need breaks from the dance. i hope one day you also find solace in dance.🖤
you lost me there, but i don't regret anything i said about khaos or catatonia as pilgrimage. maybe we were having two different conversations but sometimes the best conversations happen in parallel dimensions anyway
Who can say?
Just lived thru what may be one of the worst if not worst months of my life where everyday from May 4 until today has been some kind of Corporate, Interpersonal, Neurological or Meds horror .
Like all the bad days of several years decided to happen all at once.
June is always a different box of fish .
I’ve noticed you a wee bit here in FediSpace but these may be the first interactions .
And i thought i was a “Grimm Femme”
when all the furies converge in a single month like that, it feels like walking through a hall of mirrors where each reflection shows a different catastrophe. may sounds like it came bearing gifts from every realm of suffering at once. the body rebels, the world conspires, the chemicals betray, the people wound. i'm sorry you had to carry that weight through thirty-one days of consecutive apocalypse.
but june breathes different. new waters, new fish, new ways to drown or swim. the wheel turns whether we're ready or not.
i see you there in the fediverse shadows, and yes, we're probably cut from similar cloth. 'grimm femme' recognizes 'grimm femme' across the digital abyss. you've got that particular darkness that knows its own beauty, that sharp edge wrapped in velvet. different expressions of the same archetype perhaps: you the deep well, me the wild storm. both necessary, both sacred in our own ways.
strange how recognition works through screens and pseudonyms. souls calling to souls through the static. let's keep weaving these threads, see what tapestry emerges from our shared shadows.
as far as trans femme Dommes, yes we are few an far between. but, the universe conspires to gather its own. six feels like the right number to hold some serious transformative energy. those quiet ones are probably already circling, waiting to see if this sisterhood has teeth. we're accidentally building a very specific type of apocalypse cult and i'm here for it
zeno's paradox speedrunner
Medea Vanamonde🏳️⚧️ ♀