Hi friend, unfortunately the "what is your curse" quiz link isn't working anymore :(
That's so odd! It worked when I clicked on it. Try here?
If anyone else has this problem, do let me know! Not sure what's going on!

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@darkearthsuggestions
Hi friend, unfortunately the "what is your curse" quiz link isn't working anymore :(
That's so odd! It worked when I clicked on it. Try here?
If anyone else has this problem, do let me know! Not sure what's going on!
What is Your Curse?
Something walks behind you. Something twists through your spine. Something that marks you, mars you– something you can never be without. You bear a curse.
Take the quiz here!
Top 10 places to have the curse broken:
10. In a gaudy temple. The fee was exorbitant for something most acolyte can do, but time was of the essence. The higher quality oil they anoint your face and shoulders with smells nice and the sun shines through a stained glass window that has your favorite color.
9. An inn where you've been sweating into the sheets of a rented bed for a few days. The revelry downstairs makes it difficult to hear what the old woman that freed you told your friends. But they look relieved to have you back and you're relieved to be back.
8. Out in a field, where the wild grasses still benefit from the blood that spilled there a lifetime ago. A spirit that looks like you, in a uniform you never wore, grasps your shoulders. You're told to hold tight as the spirit goes to find aid. They never return. You never tell what happened once the others notice your return.
7. Stuck in the middle of a crowd awaiting an execution. The conflict you felt about the punishment disappeared when the blade met the wood beneath. Around you, others blink and shake their heads as if just awaking, feeling the same release as you.
6. On a slab in a morgue. Your returned breath caused the mortuary assistant to drop her tools. The resulting clatter woke you up. She screamed, you fought to remove the sheet covering your face, and the mortician laughed at the both of you when they made it down the steps.
6. In the space that was once your childhood bedroom. It's not a room anymore, the walls fell away to nature or some other force. The metal skeleton of a bedframe gives a support structure to vining plants that drape around a stone carving of a rabbit. You forget what exactly you placed in front of the carving as you try to find your way back to the road.
5. On the field of combat, sounds of pain, exertion, and metal impacting leather and wood finally breaking through the ringing that's been drowning you for ages. The person you were preparing to swing your weapon at has an open hand extended to you. You take it and help them up.
4. At midnight, sitting in the dust of a rural crossroads intersection. Next to you sits an older man in a wrinkled suit. He glances over at you and smiles, like you're a pleasant surprise. With a chuckle, he claps your shoulder and uses it to push himself up to his feet. By the time you think to ask any questions, he's long gone.
3. In the arms of a stranger on a busy festival dance floor. You return to yourself for the first time you can recall as someone whose name you don't remember teaches you the steps to a dance you'll never forget. Music and laughter and spices and frying batter. The person that stumbles home in your shoes later that night is someone you've never been yet.
2. In the early hours before dawn, sitting in front of a headstone. It's not yours but it could have been. The person who rests under it still owes you money. You are finally realizing that you no longer feel like you would give up the rest of your possessions to bring them back. You can feel them laughing at you for taking so long to get to this point. You didn't bring flowers, but the small pile of plucked grass blades you made while stalking to the headstone counts in the only way that matters.
1. Where you are right now.
the trees you grew up with have not forgotten you. their branches still whisper your name in the breeze and their roots remember the paths your feet once traced through their shade.
Yi Lei, Mother
It is hard, with our grasping hands, to hold only what we have. When the axe bites down, we look for the sapling. The dusk- the dawn. I take green to pieces in my hands, rending out roots and airing secret furls to the sun-- and already I am grasping for my seeds. But the bees simply wind to the compost heap. They will fold their bodies into flowers, as they always do. So what if the stem is cut? They know that the spring is made of more than meadow-dreams. So I, too, make my fingers curl around this gray today and catch all its long-filtered light. Green will come when green comes, but for now-- I watch the bees in the compost heap. I find my honey in the fallow.
Let me make a deal, dear winter wind-- carry the gleam of dawn down from its clouds and let it settle in my eye. I promise that I will open my coat for you. I promise to let you rest against my skin. Give me a glimpse of that little light, and I will breathe you in. Let us whistle, winter wind, as one. But you owe me this broken storm. You owe me the sun.
Songs for the sun.
[edit: poems by op!]
15.11.23
Heat and light and snapping sky, the edge of ozone violence-- the storm is easy to hate. I know why I should not walk under that rain. But I also know the black cloud's sagging walk, the tension straining blue. I know the static in the mists, the ache that arches through. I know it lashes. I know it burns. And when the storm comes, that ragged rage released, I hold out my tongue. I taste, for once, relief.
i. we live in the shadow of a many-cut gem. a hundred faces gleam hidden for each we fog with awe. no one can see every beauty. no one is made for every thing.
ii. beauty is best as a berry, surprise and sweet and bursting with its short-spark fullness as it slips past the lip. do not make beauty into burden, into duty-- you will find yourself choking on that hollow thing, mass without meaning and grimacing in prescribed delight.
iii. we hear the song better when we know the words. mine starts so. salt glittering on the pavement, calling back to their days in the dancing sea. The shock- clarity- of a single breath, like lightning in the lungs. The sun on the snow- beauty in contrast. Snow knitting its hands together into something softer- beauty in itself. Beauty in certainty, howling down the blizzard-gray sky-- I will lay myself upon this crawling earth until the frozen overflows. I will render ice before I melt. I will sing this cold-grown world to rest, and in the albedo, I will glow.
Every winter finds me unraveled, strings spilling out from my seams. But I trust that spring will come-- my spring, the weaving, and the warmth. There is no point in fretting over frays when february is such a little thing. Today I find a spot of sun. I watch the unwoven ends of me, splayed and splitting. Each one of them catches the light.
Let the day sprawl like a winding vine, golden minutes into hours and seconds again. As dreams lilt their drawling way, let them show you what you need to sleep. And when the birds call, answer into their cannoned chorus, repeating the song of countless days. Let us lose count of the robin's rounds. Let us find time in the echo.
Weaving as self creation. 30.5.24
[poems by op]
can you give me directions to home?
You are no simple, swimming thing, lungs bursting up, up-- no one direction will do. You will have to choose. You know how, though you wish you didn't. Walk your hundred circles round your glade and crouch in the grasses to get it clean. Let your fingernails catch on the little rocks as you turn the earth. Sometimes you will dig up bones, and hold your nose at rotting that turns up from below. And you will hate the work, at times, and hate that no one is enough to do if for you. But you will do it. You will drive your stakes into the ground and sweat in the sun and sing with the people who have come to raise your roof. One day, you will throw your compass away. The fox digs a new den each winter. The wren twines its twigs in the shade every spring. Now-- take your shovel and walk.
I would not ask you to rot for me. I would not ask you to die. You would be like blackberries, like blood. I do not dream of scrubbing those days away, the telling red and raw. But when the night comes and the crickets mumble, I hope you hear my name- throw open the window and search the dark. I hope you sleep like a blink, your dream forgotten, but somehow, the morning aches.
I hope you forgive yourself. I will haunt you forever.