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alt-horror · 4 days ago

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alt-horror · 5 days ago

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🕯️ i wrote a piece about beauty, symmetry, and why holy rot is more divine than any porcelain virgin they tried to make me resemble. it’s raw. it’s loud. it’s unclean. and maybe, it’s closer to god than anything ever sung in a choir robe.

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alt-horror · 6 days ago

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listening to perverts by ethel cain at 7am while my uterus gnaws at itself like a starved dog feels like communion. i am the altar. i am the sacrifice. i am the girl bleeding into gods hands and calling it love.

#ethel cain #mother ethel #ethelcore #hayden anhedönia

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alt-horror · 6 days ago

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alt-horror · 6 days ago

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alt-horror · 6 days ago

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sincerely, yours.

the horror of half-being

between baptism and burial

there are days i wake and feel the meat of me move, but not the marrow. the skin twitches with the illusion of presence, but i am not in it. i am somewhere else, cloistered between veils, caught in the vestibule of the living. i walk the streets in borrowed flesh, a holy relic gone cold. nothing takes. the wind presses its psalms against my cheek and slides off, unblessed. joy arrives in its golden cope, and i kneel out of habit, not faith. it leaves untouched. i am untouchable. not in the divine sense. in the cursed sense. in the sense of a prophet burned for visions no one asked to see.

there’s no weight to my days, only the soft hum of hours like chants echoing through an empty nave. i hear laughter like the clinking of distant bells, a call to prayer i cannot answer. pain arrives and i recognize it by name, like an old priest who forgot my confession. it knocks but does not enter. my memories are relics stripped of power, saintly bones locked behind gold and glass, paraded on feast days but hollow within. people tell me stories of my past life, but they speak as if to a ghost. and i am. i remember the parables, not the miracles. the facts, not the flame.

i am piloting a marionette, and even the strings feel slack.

inside me is a cathedral where no mass is held. no incense curls from the altar. no mouths move in prayer. there is only silence and the occasional weeping of stone. there is a god-sized hole in me, but the god has fled. or maybe i was never chosen to house one. i exist in the margin between sacrament and sin. i know what holiness should feel like, the salt of tears, the crack of bread, the ecstasy of communion but my hands reach out and grasp nothing. the ritual is flawless. the spirit never descends.

i am a self-aware apostate. not for lack of reverence, but lack of reception. the line is dead. the heavens don’t answer. the tragedy is not blindness, it is clarity. i see the light through the stained glass and still feel nothing warm. the world continues to turn like a rosary in shaking hands, but my prayers fall to the floor like teeth.

i remain unfinished. a sketch in the margins of scripture.

they say the soul anchors itself in bone, in blood, in breath. mine hovers like incense too faint to smell. some blasphemy in my making, some skipped step in the sacrament, has left me unbound. not saved. not damned. something in between. a liminal thing. a psalm scrawled in a dead tongue. nature or nurture, blessing or curse, original sin or divine omission. who can say. the chalice was passed to me but it was already dry.

people ask what i want. what are your dreams. your goals. your holy purpose.

to want, you must believe you are real. and i am still waiting to be resurrected

into my own skin.

#alternative #dark art #goth aesthetic #grunge #spooky #hopecore #dark academia #artist of tumblr #illustration #cosycore #prose #literature #writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr #i want to writeeee

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alt-horror · 6 days ago

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the horror of half-being

between baptism and burial

there are days i wake and feel the meat of me move, but not the marrow. the skin twitches with the illusion of presence, but i am not in it. i am somewhere else, cloistered between veils, caught in the vestibule of the living. i walk the streets in borrowed flesh, a holy relic gone cold. nothing takes. the wind presses its psalms against my cheek and slides off, unblessed. joy arrives in its golden cope, and i kneel out of habit, not faith. it leaves untouched. i am untouchable. not in the divine sense. in the cursed sense. in the sense of a prophet burned for visions no one asked to see.

there’s no weight to my days, only the soft hum of hours like chants echoing through an empty nave. i hear laughter like the clinking of distant bells, a call to prayer i cannot answer. pain arrives and i recognize it by name, like an old priest who forgot my confession. it knocks but does not enter. my memories are relics stripped of power, saintly bones locked behind gold and glass, paraded on feast days but hollow within. people tell me stories of my past life, but they speak as if to a ghost. and i am. i remember the parables, not the miracles. the facts, not the flame.

i am piloting a marionette, and even the strings feel slack.

inside me is a cathedral where no mass is held. no incense curls from the altar. no mouths move in prayer. there is only silence and the occasional weeping of stone. there is a god-sized hole in me, but the god has fled. or maybe i was never chosen to house one. i exist in the margin between sacrament and sin. i know what holiness should feel like, the salt of tears, the crack of bread, the ecstasy of communion but my hands reach out and grasp nothing. the ritual is flawless. the spirit never descends.

i am a self-aware apostate. not for lack of reverence, but lack of reception. the line is dead. the heavens don’t answer. the tragedy is not blindness, it is clarity. i see the light through the stained glass and still feel nothing warm. the world continues to turn like a rosary in shaking hands, but my prayers fall to the floor like teeth.

i remain unfinished. a sketch in the margins of scripture.

they say the soul anchors itself in bone, in blood, in breath. mine hovers like incense too faint to smell. some blasphemy in my making, some skipped step in the sacrament, has left me unbound. not saved. not damned. something in between. a liminal thing. a psalm scrawled in a dead tongue. nature or nurture, blessing or curse, original sin or divine omission. who can say. the chalice was passed to me but it was already dry.

people ask what i want. what are your dreams. your goals. your holy purpose.

to want, you must believe you are real. and i am still waiting to be resurrected

into my own skin.