Blood Pact Forest, or, How Would You Fuck Me in the Light of an Unshakable Trust?

Things feel good.  Really good.

It's late.

I have the smell of incense, fire, candles and wood sewn into my clothes.

Tonight I pulled an accomplice to go into a(n admittedly sketchy) place to do a full moon ritual (Full Flower Moon in Scorpio). Full moon rituals are the most potent and, mixed with fire, you have to be both ready and very fucking careful.  We were/I was both.  Don't let my DIY fool you: I still know what the fuck I'm doing.  Should one go with me to do shit like this? Probably not.  It gets weird-noises-on-the-periphery-of-the-woods and Wizards and Warlocks real quick.

The air was and continues to be electric tonight.  You can feel it on your lips and fingertips.

Ask anyone who knows something in that creep-ass-accurate Yoda way and they will tell you: There is a power in the full moon.

It's indescribable. You can feel it run through your body. The things you ask to get rid of and burn you can feel being taken from your body. Patterns of connecting that don't serve you anymore physically lift off of you and go up in smoke.

People say it's witchcraft. It could be. It involves the mixture of recognition and desire, and those things have always served as a threat to willingly wool'ed eyes.

Me?

It's fun to see beyond things.

It's fun to see down to the bone.

My favorite part?

My fingers smell like fire.





be well; absorb the best; know your worth; tilt your head;

I know you're scared.

Remember that you don't have to be.


k.
(image: from Max Ernst's A Week of Kindness, 1934, collage made up of cutting apart Victorian novels/encyclopedias)