Girlish

A morgue full of girl-ish dreams | MDNI

[glrllsh]

A little about me:

I am an 18-year-old black woman, and I make everything in my life seem more dramatic than it is. This is a mature page, as I will be discussing the various genres that comprise my life. To me, this is a blog to share the person that I tend to hide from most of the world. A me that is unashamed of what I believe and what I stand for.

My Socials are:

Instagram- Here (I made this acc specifically for sharing it on here)

X/Twitter- Here

Easy Access Just a way to help you easily navigate my blog.

The Morgue | Lulling | Eternal Slumber

The Morgue- My main blog about my life in seamless tales that feel almost surreal.

Lulling- As though a baby in its mother's arms being rocked to sleep with a lullaby; this section is for songs! I might do book reviews here, too.

Eternal Slumber- As I rest, I question what might come about in my abrupt awakening, that is, if it's not eternal; this section is for my dreams as well as tarot readings I might choose to share.

I truly hope you enjoy your endeavor down this road that seems so empty alongside me. There is always room for more in the morgue.

[glrllsh]

What If My Ancestors Hate Me? 6.09.26

The night-time seems to be the moment when everything that I’ve done in my life haunts me. My regrets, fears, and heartache consume me like a lion its prey. And amongst those things, my heart tends to soften at the idea of hoodoo.

As I grow older, I recognise all of the traditions and things that my family has done that they cover with the quilt of Christianity. I think the idea of it brings them comfort and a will to live. Yet my soul does not yearn for Christianity; rather, it wants to break free and soar towards where the ancestors lie. I know that they tend to be intertwined, but to me, Abrahamic religion belongs nowhere near something as precious as the ancestors’ blood that runs through my veins.

As simple as it’s said, I could just start. Venerating my ancestors to help me navigate through the dark forest that we call life. But the issue doesn’t lie in my will, but rather my fear. The fear of them having no will to help me in this life because of the disappointing deeds I have done. What if they hate me and no happiness comes from what my heart and soul have been pulled towards my entire life, even without my knowledge? So, I don’t, because I have become selfish. Selfish enough to deny my own self happiness to aid my anxieties in persevering.

Overthinking and anxiety are like the vernacular in my mind; I speak it fluently. And that language stops me from wanting to see what I am missing in my life. How my ancestors could steer me in directions I could only dream of right now. Yet I continue to let the heavy weight of my fear hold me back from the sigh of relief that could potentially come from allowing myself to push my doubts to the forefront where they could be erased. And I wouldn’t wish this feeling on my worst enemy.

[humator]

night off

[glrllsh]

I am not conventionally attractive, and it's annoying.

As of writing (2.28.2026), I am wrapped up in the warmth of my heated blanket, covered in paint from my random late-night surge of mania that induced me to make a portrait after three years. I opened my phone and saw a guy that I really liked at some point in time. Normally, I would be happy to see such a tantalizing face on my screen, but I just can't help but overanalyze and talk about it with you guys. You guys being my invisible blog post viewers.

I am fat, and that is fine. I love every single thing about myself, from my velvety rolls, obnoxiously huge boobs, and lack of grippable cake in the back, even to my face that I feel is constructed so beautifully that I genuinely believe that I am a pure work of art. Do not get me wrong, I am not Beyoncé beautiful, but I do have confidence in the way that I look and carry myself. Yet, even with that, no matter how confident I am, people only see me as a fat black girl. To an extent, that is fine also because, as I have stated before, I love being plus-sized; it can also be limiting sometimes, where I live. I know that if I moved out of this city riddled with MAGA, I would have a better chance at finding happiness, yet I can not. So I have to maintain a love life here, yet I feel like love is dead for me because I do not have glorious glutes and a dust-esque waist. All of my relationships have been purely because I asked them out, and they just wanted to say that they were in one. But as I write and my thoughts begin to flow out and onto this keyboard, I also remember that this is a pivotal moment in my life. If I let those horrible past experiences rule my existence, I will never know what it feels like to truly be loved and appreciated. I let time linger, and breath fills my lungs everyday yet sometimes it seems like there is no one there to notice. I do not stop anyones' time. Do not misunderstand this as me needing to be loved because that is false, but do interpret this as the addition to the morgue that it is. A drop off for my thoughts and feelings to help me bask in the light of letting go or making a change. I am not asking for advice or anything like that, I just simply wanted to share what another girl who is only girl-ish to the world might be feeling right now also.

[glrllsh]

Introduction to the Morgue TW: Talk of death and death of a loved-one.

The evening is cool as the gentle winds gust through your window as though seeking shelter in the warmth. You are sitting on your bed, tarot deck in hand, waiting for the ancestors to guide you through your next move. Your hands begin to move swiftly as you shuffle through the deck. Cards fly as you pray, asking the ancestors to guide you. Once you are done, you set the residual cards down and pick up the ones that flew from your hands with the force of a dove. And the first card you flip over is Death.

This post is just to get you acquainted with what the morgue is. I feel as though my blogs' feng shui does not quite meet the gothic or sad criteria in which we put the terms morgue or death in. That is because there are two categories for the term.

What are the two categories of death?

I am so glad you asked. Death to me is interpreted in two different ways:

The passing of someone dear to you is one. It is inevitable, irreversible. Once someone has moved from this realm of consciousness, you will never see, speak, or hear from them again. With this one comes regret, pain, agony, or even hate. There are no take-backs in the game of life, especially as we know it. That is why you must cherish the people around you now so that this form of death, a death filled with regrets, will never come to you.

A chapter closed. Maybe you have cut off someone who, at one point, meant everything to you, but you soon realized was holding you back. It was not anything bone-chillingly painful, though you might have shed a tear or two. But you knew that this was what needed to happen to push you forward as a person. The synonyms for this one are peace, cherished, or sometimes even a bit of agony also because the ending of a relationship is not easy to deal with sometimes.

These terms might seem the same to you, but they are indeed very different and can co-exist. And that is what I mean when I speak of "The Morgue." Tales of my life that you might relate to that can feel both painful and peaceful simultaneously. The morgue to me in this blog is a shelf to hold all of the things and ideas that I decided to attempt to let go of or even bask in. Memories that I treasure or ones that I despise. And that ends the introduction to the Morgue.