#1934

Dua Wepwawet, Opener of the Way
Dua Wepwawet, Lord of the West and of Jubilation
Dua Wepwawet, He with Sharp Arrows, He Who Loves Ma’at
Dua Wepwawet, Shepherd of the Path, the Unique and Adorned One
Dua Wepwawet!

You whose domain is the in between places
the roads, the rivers, the rails
I ask Your protection as I make my journey.
Let no harm come to me as I travel to my destination
let no harm come to me as I return home again.
Lord, I sing Your praises!

You whose domain is all things in motion
the wind, the water, the world
I ask that You travel beside me as I make my journey.
Let my path be easy and my troubles light
let me return home safely so I may give my thanks to You.
Lord, I sing Your praises!

Dua Wepwawet, Opener of the Way
Dua Wepwawet, Lord of the West and of Jubilation
Dua Wepwawet, He with Sharp Arrows, He Who Loves Ma’at
Dua Wepwawet, Shepherd of the Path, the Unique and Adorned One
Dua Wepwawet!

[ A prayer for safety in travels, directed to Wepwawet, the Kemetic god who guards the ways of both the living and the dead. ]

#1931

I know the hallowed halls of your realm as if I have walked them myself. In the bedroom which is your battlefield, I watch you wage war between silk sheets; in the bathroom which is your ninth circle, I watch you speak prophecies through blood. In the apartment which is your palace and your tomb, I watch you dance through death and resurrection and death again. These places are the temple in which I was raised as your acolyte to bear silent witness to the private agonies of gods. Like your every word and breath, so I memorize and immortalize the places which have shaped your tale – the alley where blood and rainwater mix on cold cement, the roof where you dare the wind to pull you off the ledge. In the city which is your essence, the city from which you cast a thousand thousand shadows, the city where you live and die the unending cycle, I watch and I write.

#1929

I dream about tarot cards. I hold a deck in my hands and draw a card – The Devil, perhaps, or the Two of Swords. I toss the deck into the air to let the cards fall where they may, all face down. I pick one at random – Death – and say to the figure beside me, See, all the cards I draw mean death.  By which I mean, All the cards I draw mean Daren.

#1924

Do you exist without each other? Do you exist in the time before you met, when you lead separate lives? You never let me see those years.

Who was Will before he found Hannibal?


…we don’t ever learn that, I guess. Not really.

And after?


We don’t know that either.

Then there you have it. Whether the teacup existed before it shattered or not doesn’t matter once it has broken.


But– …I hate when you speak in riddles.

No, you don’t.


Does that make me Abigail, then?

That’s a riddle you’ll have to solve for yourself.

#1921

I lurk in the pagan tags
scroll scroll scroll
like
scroll scroll scroll
reblog
scroll scroll scroll
scroll scroll scroll
scroll scroll scroll
I need to know other people believe crazy shit too
scroll scroll scroll
that I’m not alone in my experiences
scroll scroll scroll
that I’m not Cassandra spouting prophecies
just to be met with ridicule and slander
scroll scroll scroll
or worse, just a poor wannabe

#1916

20170405_213709
I could build a castle with the corpses
from all the times I’ve killed you.
At a distance it would look like white marble
and be as cold to the touch.

Would your ghosts sing to me?

[ Image credit can be found at: https://www.pinterest.com/onlyfragments/ ]

#1914

Sometimes I wish my body was your body. I know I shouldn’t, and why would I? Who wants to be always dead or dying? Who chooses to be trapped inside a burning building? But I do, because it is you. I want to hold up my arms and see how they taper to elegant hands that so casually cradle a knife. I want to feel how gracefully this scarce body bends and turns, and how hard and unyielding it becomes when it takes what it wants. I want to see in my reflection the unforgiving lines of your face and stare into the deep wells of your eyes. And yes, I want to know what it is like to rot from within, to taste blood in the back of my mouth and feel my sanity crumbling at the edges – but only in your body; only your rot. Decay is only as beautiful as the thing it destroys, and thus you in your unbearable perfection have elevated dying to an art form.