Anxiety makes me feel like I’m full of moths. When you get excited for something, you get happy little butterflies, but the internal fluttering of anxiety is frantic and terrible. It’s in your stomach, making you sick. It’s in your throat, making it hard to breathe. It’s in your head, making it impossible to focus.
this is so accurate
So tw for abuse and blood and body horror most likely.
This is for everyone who responded to an abuser or a bad person or just a request in the negative and was told to be nicer, to be sweeter, to not have been so harsh, to have let people walk all over you. This is not directed at anyone on tumblr, this is something I didn’t realize I wanted to say. It was sitting in my belly for a really long time, buried in anxiety, and tonight I finally wrenched it free.
(If you find this empowering because I definitely channeled it from somewhere NOT-ME, I REALLY suggest reading it out loud in a ritual/dramatic format. It actually burns.)
The divine play will go like this: I will tell you no, and you will call me by a name I chose for myself, that you did not know I had chosen. You will ask me why I have to sit in fields of twisted metal and a mound of swords to keep myself safe. You will ask me who my enemy is, and you will ask me also who I think I am fooling.
And I will say to you thus:
If I have to arm myself in florals and spiked boots and wear an armor of bitch, of nasty, to keep you away from me, I will. If being mean is the one breaker in your circuit of abuse, I will be that, I will make myself that breaker. I will make myself the link hit too many times, tempered into sharp steel, and your curses will die in your lips where I cut you open in the night.
My temper is the product of nights spend nursing wounds and sharpening claws. My nasty is the symptom of the disease you carry and spread like a plague and call yourself a Messiah. Your forked tongue will turn to acid in my hands, your well of Good Person drained and destroyed.
My walls were cemented with pieces of myself lost to others; they were set with my bones breaking under the weight of your ‘nice’. The fragments of my sinew tie this ragged fence together, and it is stronger than your words. Your nice has killed me, and here I lay, and you call down into my grave that it was my fault, that I threw myself with bloodied hands into this destitution.
I tell you no. I tell you for every no you reject, I grow spikes and poison courses through my veins. I tell you for every request I reject and you anger over, my body builds and my voice becomes a terrible cacophony, and later when I am finished they will write my name in books and never speak my name in vain, for it is Fury.
And I tell you now when I am done you will burn twice for every abuse you had me take, and once more each for every scar you left on my torn body, and I will stand and I will watch. And I will ask you what it feels like to drown in your words, maybe if you had been nicer, I would have thrown down the ladder of mercy.
For every time I censored my mighty soul for you, for every time I was made small and digestible to your loathsome tongue, I will rend your skin in two with talons named for all the time I lost with your nice. I will write upon your back in scars the things I thought and never said, and the things you made me forget. I will not forget again, because now I know my name, which was kept from me, by you, in a cage of Nice.
And it is Furie, and Fear, and Mighty Mountain Mover, admired of the sun and moon, kept for a long time in a cage of Man, but not forever. No bond could keep the Hurricane within my lungs, the earthquakes of my mighty feet, and you were only the last to realize, and that mistake will be your last.
Every fire eventually burns free, and my fire thirsts for you. And it will find you, for my thirst is the the immortal soul of a beast, the beast I have made myself and that all men fear in the night.
And my name is Fury.
So… would it be okay if I read this out loud to the Erinyes the next time I give them an offering? Because it sounds just like them.
Yes because tbh I got the same exact feeling when I was writing it. It’s very powerful read.
all I want in life is to become the Big Guy’s nun
an armored shieldbearing spearwielding nun with a cape stained red by the blood of her god’s vanquished enemies
that still counts as a nun right?
Totally counts as a nun
Series of paintings discovered in an abandon mental asylum in Italy.
God bless Tolkien.
Two households, both alike in dignity,
in Middle Earth, where we lay our scene
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal realms of these two foes
A pair of star-cross’d brothers make their life
Whose misadventure Sauron overthrows,
And with his death, end their people’s strife.
Their fearful passage, that shall death mark’d prove
And the continuance of their parents’ rage
Which but The One Ring’s end, naught could remove,
Is now, like, twelve hours’ traffic of our stage;
The which of you with patient ears attend,
What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.
did you just rewrite shakespeare for lord of the rings and make it work better than the original
ENGLISH LITERATURE NERDGASM OF EPIC PROPORTION!
this thing is the best thing.