there goes the priestess

well i'm in trouble now. i really do like him.

on monday he brought us coffee without asking or even really telling me he'd meet me at my usual writing spot. imagine that. he really likes me. life is perfect. im suspicious. hopefully this wont blow up in my face. im genuinely happy and upbeat these days, aside from the anger.

i've been dealing with my fawn response to trauma and as the initial hit wears off i'm becoming more frustr

i've been focusing less on the whole spirituality thing, letting it pass me by rather than chasing. eventually, the gates will open. 

i've decided i will read the count of monte cristo through the year and to my 25 books alongside it. i read my year of rest and relaxation again sometime through the beginning of the month. right now, i'm reading death in her hands. im drinking some decent coffee and sitting in the horrible sun. im so fucked up and weird man idk. but i'm having a good time in my life. im in the real summer of my life now. 

im fucking crazy but i am free.

phoebe bridgers i know the end

 

Sufjan Stevens & Angelo De Augustine - "Murder And Crime"

 

venusian, saturnian

 magical friday night. 

friends and drinks. beautiful days with people i love. im in heaven with my friends. 

we slipped away to interpol for a second. he kissed my neck lightly, i let him. he wanted to kiss me, he said to do so whenever i felt like it. i guess its fine, i don't feel unsafe. just a normal amount after all i've gone through. less than that. we agreed on a half-friendship, as i said. we're going out. i like him a lot. i think he's the sweetest but i'm so scared of uncertainty. im scared of losing him or getting hurt. losing him now would break my heart all over again. its that serious already. its good we're taking precautions. 

he has these eyes, rich black. the sky reflects off them so brightly when its daytime. at night, theyre like nothing else in the world. dark and pooling. theyre slightly slanted up, catlike. pinched up. this wonderful softness to his face and stare, a real strength to his shoulders. i like him. so different, no bones poking out of veins bulging all over. thicker skin, his strong perfume, sweet and long. i like him. 

im working on hexes, ill curse eventually. im breaking people, three individuals, im breaking them and their relationships. im going to cash a check that has been hanging over me for a bit too long.

the blows you've dealt unto the world, my heart, they will run to you like dogs over the course of your miserable insect lives, over and over.

dream of me now. 

radioactivity

 its been fine. ive been working on everything.

i was able to transcend a bit earlier this week. i did a meditation and ended up in a trance state. felt by hands melt into the universe and my forehead "open up" or something. i felt an energy pulse at my palms. im getting better at that, ive been feeling it more often during my spellwork. its been very fun. 

how my life has changed. and for the better. i must not be afraid. ive been happier, a bit angry, but serene. joyful, tranquil. ive been more awake and present, more alive. the loop is over. 

went for coffee with my friend and the guy im seeing. i love being with people.

melancholic. everything we built and the things we thought were permanent. i never thought it would happen, i guess it had to. im happier and more excited to live now than before.

i have been lightly considering a cord cutting but i want to perform some hexes first. a curse, even. honestly. i want to make it painful, i want it to last. i am the one who will give him the key to his 12h leo. im going to teach him some respect. thats been my motto. some people need me to teach them some respect.

i need money and clients. people are coming to me. 

rehab

 It's been uncomfortable. The house was in disarray when I first moved back in. My father was never one to clean up after himself. Never exactly warm either. Slow paced and quiet. I wish I could say it was better than living with Hugo, it really wasn’t. 

That discomfort first gripped when I came into my childhood bedroom, stepping through the door and with my hands sore from the luggage. Unsettled is the more precise word, as if it wasn’t me who cleared it before leaving for college, as if it was gutted and swallowed by unknown forces. I hadn’t seen it since then, didn’t even remember clearing it out. Not clearly, anyway. Unfamiliar and unexpected, I could almost see the posters hanging on the bits of adhesive still clinging to the white walls. 

Almost 20 years ago, I begged dad for turquoise walls. When he finally obliged, I was delighted. It didn’t last more than two weeks. The turquoise I picked was much too bright, saturated. He had warned me over and over. Terry, you’re going to hate it in a month. Terry, we’re not going to change it back no matter how hard you beg. Terry, are you sure?

 My head hurt and I started hanging out anywhere but my room all through that year. I eventually moved back in by sheer force of will. We only painted them back to white right before I moved. I did, really. I remember how my arms cramped for days after I was done. I remember how badly they hurt through my first day in college. 

Today, the walls were indisputably white, but seemed to glow some rabid teal under direct sunlight. I kept the curtains down. 

The bedding itched my legs. The bedding, too, was white and eerily clean. Reminded me about the couple days I spent at the hospital when my appendix bursted. Hugo was there with me, through the complications. I don’t remember much about it, I know he was there. He's been there in general, the vignette of all my pictures. I don’t remember what it is we talked about before everything came crashing down. I don’t know why or what made it all crash down, it seems it just did.

The pit in my stomach, I haven’t even tried to fill it. Not with food or alcohol or whatever else. I shopped for new clothes immediately after the split but never got myself to wear them, aside from the two or three times I walked halfway to the bar “to meet new people” then turned back and walked home. This was right before the bigger blues. I was saving those clothes for when I became a new woman, they’ve been hanging stiff since then. They’re crunched up in my suitcase. 

It seems life has gone on the same around here, after mom died. We don’t talk about it. For months, I couldn’t talk about it, I wouldn’t. Not with dad, not with God, not with Hugo. I refused to talk about it until everyone stopped asking. Avoided the funeral and would not let the condolences in, not words or gift baskets. Too late by then, nobody around to hear it. 

At night, I heat up some microwave meals and dad watches TV over in the living room. An old TV, I hear it going on and on about prizes and trivia. I have dinner in my room, over the desk. In the mornings, I make us breakfast. Eggs and bacon, usually. I do the dishes. I clean the house and dust the cabinets. Aside from that I don’t really know what I do. Time goes through me, it feels like. I walk in circles. 

The phone rings and it's still everything but what I want to hear. I don’t know what I want to hear, and I’ve never felt so alone.

DIE STANDING GO DOWN SCREAMING

im harnessing myself and a power. im getting to meet myself. 

today was such a good day. but i had a little nap after a good day of class. freezer spell worked. but i dreamt paul came into my room and curled into my bed. i held him, i needed a hug. it felt good but he started kissing my neck. i tried to push him away and he became more aggressive. i pushed him again and felt i couldn't. 

he was on top of me now and as he tried to ram me to the wall i kicked him off and he hit the floor. he was crimson red. i went down to him and kicked him some more, i felt horrible. i felt so guilty. 

i curled down to him and started trying to hold his face, he pushed me to the ground and tried again. as he did, i managed to free my hands and rip his face apart, kicked him, i bit into his shoulder and ripped the meat off. i killed him so brutally. i tore him apart with my hands and teeth. he was nothing on the floor, pulp. i felt horrible and guilty again. 

i woke up.

new guy im seeing we have decided to be friends. we set up rules as we had some coffee. hes very sweet.

next person to try anything funny with me will get the hammer. im protected. 

milk

Delilah rubbed the tip of the straw, lightly tapping the bed of her finger over it. The band had stopped playing already, it was Thursday. There was nothing left of her milkshake but a puddle of dry  pink goop swaddled at the bottom of the cone glass, the perfectly circular, equally dry remnants of bubbles over the straw like leftover scars on a smallpox victim.

Tim finished off the last of his fries and wiped the grease from his fingers on the bed of paper that lay over the plastic bowl, firetruck red. Delilah looked at him without much of a thought. Nothing about him seemed to interest her too much aside from if the meal was good or if work was fine. His inner world remained his, and he liked it that way for the most part.. 

He was horrified and irritated by her feeble attempts at beauty and glamour, which aggravated his disdain for the true belief she held in her own beauty and glamour. The way she spinned her shoulders back and held her chin up like she had to balance an apple on her head. Ridiculous. She was a tramp, anyone could see that. Made him recoil. Her plump little earlobes were rarely ever not stained green from the cheap nickel jewelry, stray bits of glitter finding their way into her pores. That horrid darkness around her eyes, smudging black and blue down all over her eye sockets when she came back home from work, her mascara clumped and thick like the legs on a spider and her crimped white blonde hair, chocolate black at the roots which stretched down to her brows. She really thinks she’s Marilyn, he scoffed.

She bent over the booth table and picked up his leftover pickle with her long fingernails, smiling. The lace on her ultra-pink bra peeked over her coral orange tank, which squeezed her torso. She had this same top, spaghetti straps and down to her hips, in about eight different colors. Bright coral, neon aqua, black, hot red, hot pink, baby pink, ultraviolet. He was forgetting one. Maroon. 

Same with her damned bra, each too small for her grotesque breasts and spilling her cleavage everywhere, a whole drawer of different lace patterns and colors and rhinestone straps for a special day out and a green and orange one for St. Patrick's day. Each with its matching pair of panties and some with a matching babydoll gown or strappy harness. Frivolous purchases, Tim thought. She was a big spender, half a big earner too, a while back. At this rate there would never be enough money  for a new car. This was the more pressing matter, not a new get-up or new perfume from Walmart.

She loved those body spritzes from the expensive stores, the ones with shimmer, super thin glitter that was impossible to wash off clothes or bedsheets, let alone her sticky sweet skin, those nauseating sweet perfumes which she layered over each other, vanilla, peach cobbler, whatever else. Chocolate.

This one time, Delilah came home with a big bag of flavored makeup. Birthday cake flavored lipstick, creamsicle flavored skin mousse, a cotton candy flavored shimmer puff powder, whatever else. About two hundred dollars for the whole lot. Tim was fuming with rage. He threw it all away expecting her to key his car, but she resigned quietly. This made him feel strangely guilty, frustrated, but before he could scrounge up the courage to ask for forgiveness she was acting normal again, though they didn’t talk for about a week. He didn’t realize that she had bought herself a new set the day he threw his fit. He didn’t find out about it until her powder ran out and he found it in the trashcan.

He must’ve somehow assumed all lip balms tasted like butterscotch and all women had a hint of weird chemical cherry pie to their skin. He could be quite dense sometimes.

The drive back home was quiet, which got him thinking about when her mother died and she did nothing but lay motionless on the bed, too weak to speak. She couldn’t talk at all, only stared relentlessly at the fan. Eerily quiet for a woman such as her. She was a big crier, cried at roadkill and lifetime movies or love songs, but that all consuming  terror of wails and weeps never got to her while they stayed in her childhood home for the funeral, or the motel before the final drive back home. She was glassy eyed with her lips quivering in the car for that, and it was probably the first time he ever saw her without makeup. 

For a second it was relieving to see her in her natural state. Her dry animal body flat across the flashy neon bed and neon walls and neon beads and sparkles. Her sort of staggering decay, her spine limp rather than erect to push her chest out, her face was glossy from the tears and pale and bare, doughy, and it seemed stone gray in contrast to all her belongings. Like a mummy surrounded by gems and gold. It was almost comical.

After about a week of sulking, he got irritated and left her on her own while he crashed at a friend’s couch. When he returned after about two weeks he found her face bloated from the crying but no longer wet, more so dry from the tears and deflated over the mattress, ravaged and unmade, the bedding peeled from the edges and folded in all sorts of ways. For a second,  he thought she might be dead. It smelled like hell, body odor and piss. She was alive. It took her two weeks to get back to work, about two months to get back to her old ways. By this time, they had changed her role from dancer to waitress to dancer for a week then hostess again. The pay was fine.

Seeing her so disarmed and simple that one time made it so that he could not stand the sight of her doing her makeup or putting her damaged platinum hair up into a big updo again. Not that he could ever stand it, he was just especially cruel about it now, could simply  not bear it. Not that, not her crystal heels clicking or her thick nails tapping, about two inches long and curved. 

He couldn’t remember how they even ended up together, or if he ever truly loved her, or where they even met. Delilah was a fact of life now, much like work on Monday or his own eventual death. She was there in the morning to wake him up, there at night to heat up some dinner. There to nag, to ask for his coat in the rain or the cold, to fuck. 

He pictured her somewhere else, dead in a ditch, as a groupie, as a hooker. Her working the pole. That's how they met, he assumed. Good pay, at least. As stated, a tramp.

But that was long ago. For now, they stayed in a decently sized trailer. Neither he nor her seemed to really mind it, but he didn’t like the way she set up the place. The walls were turquoise and the bed was zebra print, hot fuchsia beaded curtains separating the bedroom and the kitchen. He pleaded for her to change it but she never listened. It was her trailer, after all.  

If you hate it so much, then go stay at a motel she rang over him with her frilly southern voice, loud as a thundering sky. The big goddess of consumption and cheap glamour. He tried, but he couldn't make the money stretch. She was kind. She always bought him a box of his favorite cigarettes and candies when she went to the store, always happy to see him again after work even after a fight. He could try to be mean, she seemed too stupid to figure it out. But she did.

They got home, he grabbed himself a beer and upon finishing it they had sex. It was cold and utilitarian, but that's all he ever really wanted from it. Delilah laid there in protest after without a word, refusing to get up to wash and hoping for Tim to figure out she was upset, as was routine. He didn’t think of it, never noticed. They both lay quiet and he fell into his slumber as she waited for him to say something, ask what's wrong. It wasn't until he started snoring that Delilah obliged and rolled herself to her side, half upset and half relieved that they didn’t fight tonight. She fell asleep. 

fresh new start. context and intro. hi!

 hello again. every post archived, all two and a half years of it.

im león, im currently 21, a virgo sun, capricorn moon and libra rising. im a recovering catholic and pagan wicked witch. tarot reader by profession and armchair occultist. psychology student. painter, writer, musician. 

my ex boyfriend (ages 18-21) raped and took advantage of me repeatedly for about two years then left me after he settled on finally respecting my boundaries. guess its not that fun to do all that. aside from that, he was fine. when it was good, it was good. when it was bad, well. 

a close friend accused me of cheating and my friend group left me for dead. i didn't do it. i don't like kissing. they know i didn't do it but they decided to ditch me, my boyfriend accused me of talking shit about him. its whatever. new friend group now, reconnecting with my old band and the world again. the world itself feels fresh. 

something happened to me after the first time that ill never catch and kill. its the foundation of all my adult lived experience, much like anorexia was the foundation of my teenage years and the legs on which i stand on today.

the break up was hard. i thought i was going to marry him. the years of abuse bonded us, i wanted to wait until marriage and i was holding on to the second best thing. i loved him when he was sweet, i was bored to hell and could not stand him anymore. he left me and i begged and begged. he broke up with me through whatsapp, sent me a pdf and blocked me. told all my friends to block me and remove me from the groups, leave the groups i made. it was horrible and i had that nightmare over and over. 

one month passed and i stitched myself up with my witchcraft and the help of my patrons.

im finally writing again, im painting, im feeling like myself again. im breathing free. im happy and connected. still pissed at those bitches though. i'll let them have it, later. all of them.