Bathe You Away

I tried to fix the pain with baths. Countless baths.

Trying to suspend my sorrow in holy water,

to fill myself with something

that was not you.

Drawing bath after bath, floating, dying to be submerged and held for hours on end.

Some with rose petals, witch hazel, sea salt, and opalic clouds of foam- to make you softer, to make me prettier.

Some were cunning. Those ones were dyed crimson, with dragons blood and jasmine, burning so hot that they stained my skin and left an afterglow, so I could seduce and lure you back, savagely, quickly.

There were bright ones, with honey and marigold, milk, lavender and amber- to draw the happiness out of you. To make your eyes light up at the sight of me, again. To help you remember.

Then there were ones with charcoal, brewed of blood and snakes venom, to purge you out of me.

The darkest, blackest things. To make me hard and strong.

And each time I would emerge, unquenched and dehydrated by you, seething.

It’s different now. There is a dissonance in knowing I am holy and being treated otherwise. It's too intense for you, with so much soul it seeps out of me, seeps out of my hands and fingers like rivers with the magnitude of stars. I did not come here to concern myself with the hearts of men. God is my drug dealer.

I long to stray back into the forest and rest amidst the woods and mountains and learn their secrets before anyone else’s.

To be mystically baffled by something bigger than you or me.

Only the earth can give me what I need.

DREAM ARCHITECT SEEKS EXISTENTIAL PRANKSTER

I am a scandalously honest skipping stone on the way to heaven, willing to sage your privates, take hikes in the astral plane and let you undress me in the forest.

A Mesmerizing cosmic lunar-tic looking for thrill thief with the soul of a musician and the wardrobe of a lottery winning pirate. Limited responsibilities and an excess of money and time are preferred. Should be woven of the silk of the most luminous stars. Emotionally articulate, and willing to read erotica on megaphones while riding through the Bible Belt on white horses.

A plus if you know the difference between The Greys and Pleiadians, or have any mediumistic qualities.

Toxic Karma

When she touched him, she felt her hands run through him, like water. It was impossible to decipher where his feelings began and hers ended. It was impossible to tell if she longed for him or dreaded him. She wanted to torment him and also reward him. It was primal electricity, passionately cruel. It was remembering.

There was a haunt in the energetic familiarity. An intangible, non linear remembering in the feeling of his hands, his essence. They spoke of past lives, about myriads of lifetimes where two were bound. They didn’t speak of what to do when it made her ill. The weight of being bound by invisible rope, snaking into her gut like an infection that only she knew.

It was not enough to know this was not the first time, not enough to wait achingly for the image of him to not be so solid. She itched for the link to disintegrate and no longer torment her like a timeline only she could access. Even the thought of him felt like heavy flesh.

She had walked enough through his universe, leaving lasting, golden footsteps, through stages of innocent and reckless, tragic and erotic. She decided she could only cure herself with the sea.

She was as pale as the dead in the moonlight, and kicked off her clothes quickly, the tips of her red hair cascading brilliantly against her waist like wisps of gold. Her skin as luminescent as the changing of opals. Her eyes were full of candles, so unfixed that no man would ever know their color. She greeted the sea as an old friend, head slightly bent, before charging at it, eyes wild. There, she basqued, naked, in the honey of the moonlight that poured out onto the oceans flesh.

“I release you.”

She screamed into the sea, feeling a blazing wave of holiness clash up against her legs and waist and shoulder blades, until it almost swallowed her. In the infinite expanse of the ocean, the thought of him felt like a distant memory, only existing to serve as an aquatic mass she had once lost herself in.

She felt him turn from a wound, to liquid, to dust- til it fermented and turned to story.

Time consolidated the murmurs in her heart, and when she was ready, she sat down and wrote about them.

She's Crazy

Oh her? She's crazy.

You can’t argue against being crazy without sounding crazy. The archetype of the “crazy girl” is the modern day equivalent to that of the witch. There is no defense against it. It's a new meta-mythology that you can’t argue with. The Crazy Girl. Does she send myriads of jealous texts late at night? Or did she try to throw herself off the balcony of the standard hotel? Doesn’t matter. Same thing. She's crazy. She has too many secrets and she talks too much about sex.

Reclaim the notoriety, provoke people with your absurdity, solely live based on moment to moment impulse and melodramatic displays of emotion. People will always be afraid of watching women let their emotions out, as if they only unleash only bad things. They will tell you that you are too defiant, too tempestuous, too difficult.

Well, fuck that.

Most people are bored, and they need something to talk about. It makes them feel big and valuable. Somehow, shaming fiery women makes their lives more interesting, shaping passion and drive into some sort of distorted, half assed fairy tale.  .
I can be your character, I make a great one. But don’t tell stories that are boring.

Tell them about the time I cursed my ex and in violation, he broke both of his legs. Tell them how well acquainted I am with pain, how I wear my scars blaringly, on my sleeve. Tell them how I did that one thing, at that one place, in front of the wrong person. Tell them how I am only satisfied by the woods and mountains. Tell them I’ve been visited by aliens. Tell them about my tongue, tell them how I dance on tabletops and roll around in grass. Tell them I am feral and insane, it will only make you feel brighter and better.

Don't compromise your passion or condemn your own capacity to feel so greatly. Don’t condense or refine yourself. Let yourself spill out and overflow with vivacious ecstasy, with grandiose feeling and neon opinions.

The world is my subconscious, and I am a time travelling fairy. I am go go dancing in this mass hallucination. And I don't care if that makes me crazy.

alien life form

I don't want a man, I want an alien life form, unpossessive and more complex and mysterious than a man. Something immune to the acidity of lost wisdom. Foreign and complex, with hands that transcend time and space, and eyes that speak silk.  I want unreal happenings and delicate nights in outer space. I don’t want anything that will take me away from my pretendings, i want something that will add to them, glitter them, color them. I want extraterrestrial love making and time traveling waltz’s.

Urgent beauty and giggly truth. Feeling in excess.  Something that will take me away from the suffocation of the mass hallucination named reality.

I shouldn’t be so surprised when the people I idealize turn out, in fact, to be human.

I bet you think this post is about you

It is hard for me to separate from what is my innately romantic nature and what is the inheritance of an ideal imposed by Disney movies and the tyranny of patriarchal culture. I am afraid that I have been taught that my completion arrives in the body of another. I yearn to break free from these mythological lies, to resuscitate my imagination like a doctor of dreams, to seek a love beyond wanting to belong to or possess another. When I was younger and more malleable, easily swayed and inspired, I was insistent only on getting lost in forests of people, both dense and rigid, wild and unkempt. Letting myself disintegrate in shreds, observing from three feet above my body, like watching the erotic melancholy of ruined black silk. Through my own loss, I could keep the enchanted chambers of luminous stuff hidden, and just fall, bottomless, into another.

I refuse to perpetuate the idea that love needs to feel requited or earned or deserved to exist. Love just is. It is an impenetrable essence, and if it's real, it can never be threatened. Therefore,I have been attached to the etheric embodiment of people without their physical manifestation, fallen in love with their absence, fallen even more in love with their potential, because then they stay fairy tale creatures, and my storytelling is never exhausted.  Perhaps I will always be in varying degrees of love with people, and they will falter seamlessly into one another, departing as one loss. But, a discreet sun is tearing things open with age, reminding me that I have to make the pattern better.

I have to anchor down something real, no matter how attached I am to an invisible ideal. I don't want to exist only at night. I want to share my secrets like oysters and champagne. I want to be your mystery erotica. I want to be vulnerable like white roses. I want to know that you’ll be here, in the flesh, in your uncomfortable skin suit, to watch me unravel, no matter how long it might take.

LEO LUNAR ECLIPSE BLOOD MOON RITUAL

Leo. Ruler of the heart and creative capacity. Evening gowns made of sunlight. Doc Martins that sing songs when you stomp. Drawing on your childhood walls. A burlesque performance in a supermarket. A toddler in a tiara throwing a tantrum. A firework display of orgasms. The impulse to say the revealing thing. Blood pulsing through your heart.  The drive to leave clues of your inner world on the outer stage. And above all things, attention.

This Leo Super Blood Moon Eclipse is just as ostentatious, powerful and lasting as it sounds. It is passionate, it is full, and baby, its all about the heart. Leo teaches us that we have the power to CREATE OUR REALITY WITH ATTENTION. It asks us to lead with the heart, and draw forth dreams with vivid actions. Our hearts are getting more open, and as a result, we feel more. The separation from the astral plane of imagination and the physical realm is getting thinner, and what we pay attention to WILL be realized. It is time to let go of any delusions, half-dreams or narratives that interfere with our own radical self love.

In order to actualize our wildest, wettest dreams, we have to be willing to expunge and release any inner narratives than interfere with our own divinity.   If there are people in your life that don’t see you as a completely unique, beautiful, fractal of divinity- release them. If there are things in your space that don’t reflect your glittery fantasys- chuck em to the wind. Imagine that you are a secret heir to an enormous fortune of love and success that is about to be actualized. The future is conspiring to shower you in ridiculous, laughable blessings. Everything other than that is burnt up tonight.

A RITUAL FOR MYSTICAL ACTIVISM:

    Create a sacred space for yourself with your most glittery, gorgeous sacred items. Light candles in a circle. Annoint yourself with oil and burn incense to open up your senses. Visualize a stream of miracles, liquid gold, pouring through your body, and centralizing around your heart. Write down anything that does not serve you and that you want to stop creating.

Place your left index and middle finger on the space between your mouth and nose and read the following, with as much Leo conviction as you can muster:

“I proclaim that my life is my own. I close all windows, portals, and doorways that would allow another to manipulate my life. I cast out all controlling and invasive energies I have experienced throughout the journey of my soul and all those connected to these energies. It is my intent that all aspects of my highest being be present. I choose to be well, whole and perfect of mind, body and soul. I call forth all soul expressions, elementals and thought forms to stand before me, as I stand before you, in love.

(Now read what you want to release from your paper)
I ask that you forgive and honor me. I forgive and honor you. I embrace you in love and I thank you for the lessons we have shared. I now choose to release all bonds between us and transmute them into unconditional love.

I command that all thought forms, energies, programs or substances that have been administers or that I have created, on all levels of my being, forming seperation, distortion, illness or illusion within my being,

now be transmuted into the divine expression of Creative Love.

Whatever laws I have owned, whatever beliefs I have held, whatever vows I have taken, whatever invocations I may hold, whatever contracts and agreements I have made, and those I have them with, that have allowed distortions, illusions, images holograms, symbols and psychic messages that prevent me from experiencing bliss within my being,

I now transmute into the divine expression of Creative Love.

I choose to be whole, complete, centered and balanced. I call forth all aspects of my being to align with me in divine perfection and integrate into the totality of my being.

I am Creative Love.

And so it is.”

Burn your paper and expect a monumental miracle.

Interdimensional Erotica

Woman is man’s terrestrial link to divinity.

Generously, women have reverberated into the cells and tissues of men, reverberating the abyss of consciousness from which we came, shifting and shimmering inside forever, like a madness. Leaving them aching, brilliantly, with the familiarity of non-existance.

Some women have reclaimed their power to levitate above time, to desert linear thought and fragmented consciousness, to reconvene with the sacred. To exaggerate passion. They remember how to use their nocturnal emissions to draw light out of the dark. They remembered that in their genetic coding, there is a capacity for alchemy, a euphoric bliss that expands and also paralyzes.

Some women know when they are being thought about, spoken about and when they are being masturbated to, particularly when we have allowed for our relationships with people to extend beyond the physical. The partners we collect and then detach from can feel like phantom limbs, like something that got lost in the dark, still there, still itching, but not solidified in flesh. Some of us know how to invite the etheric embodiments of people into our world, how to communicate with the subtle ghosts people leave in our bodies.

I like to make men mad, I like to see their feverous, greedy eyes, their heated, interrupted breath, hungry to digest something unattainable. I like to provoke them with my magnetism and then pull away, drawing back the light in the room.

It’s like the sound of doors unlocking, the jarring, discombobulating potency of powered femininity, something non physical, something holy.

Tell me how it feels, my darling, to be hip deep in a goddess, to be lapping in the waves of a thousand luscious vibrations, each one stronger than the previous.Tell me about the wicked emotions that make you tremor. Tell me about how I terrify you. Tell me what faction of heaven I take you to.

My heart is full of you, my phantom limb, itching in your absence. I think of your scars as exotic tattoos.