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themixedwitcharchive:

Red Thing

There is a monster in my chest. You have one too. 

It lives tucked in between the layers of flesh and sinew, makes its home in my empty spaces. When I run, it runs faster. I hear its footsteps echo in my hollow bones. 

It is a red thing, this beast, all hungry and searching. Its roots dig deep into my veins and pull them like strings.

Where it leads me, I can’t help but follow. It takes me to dangerous places, to dark caves, to the edges of cliffs. “Plunge in headfirst.” it tells me. And I do it. 

The creature in my chest has killed me many times. Just as many, it has put me back together with delirious hands. When I am sinking into myself, it reaches in to pull me out. “Not yet,” it says, beating me back to life, “not just yet.“ 

It is a master without method or reason. Still, I couldn’t live without it.

There is a monster in my chest. I call it my heart.

renniequeer:

When hurricane season hits its peak and the storms are damn near constant, sure, I’ll pour out my offerings to Thor.

But we name those storms. We personify and anthropomorphize them. We hail them as beings with their own energy and presence. Even people who claim no belief in any higher power will do this.

“Remember Andrew? He was a bastard.”

“Irma’s angry; she’s going to hit us hard.”

The strongest? We never call another storm by that name, and in the areas heaviest hit, you see a sharp, sharp decline in children bearing that moniker. Around here we know–you don’t give a kid that name, it has too much power and rage behind it. It’s ill luck.

So I offer to the storms, too. To tell them, hey–I see your power, your might, your rage. I see your majesty. Please, slow down. Please, be calm. Transform your rage into gentle showers and winds that are just strong enough for us to know it’s you. 

Be kind to us, great storms; show us your power in a way that causes the least amount of harm.