the ten of swords;

There is no peace in this death, no rising sun and fetal hurricane wind to carry my ashes to some new universe.

All I have is an agony so deep that I think perhaps I am the sea. My depths seem so black that there's no color at all in my veins. Even the life pouring out around the swords driven though my spine is dark, dark, dark.

Did I think I had color once? Was my heart as crimson as war? Did my lungs bloom with opium flowers and weeds so green that I called myself mother, and life, and hope? Was my liver a collage of slaughter and roots? Had the back of my eyelids been rainbow colors and spectral ghosts taunting me with a million seeds of the worlds I thought lived in me?

When did I surrender? Was it at the tip of the first sword? Or was it at the bite of the tenth as it ripped out my insides like a monolithic god chewing at the wreckage of a mountain?

Maybe I was born to surrender, to dash myself like a tide on on the cliffside of men and strife. Perhaps this is all there is: weapons and black blood full of the poison I've been swallowing down like the good girl I've been told to be.

But

I

Think

And I think

And I think

I think

I

I am the fetal hurricane and I devoured that rising sun. The pieces of me leaking out are so black, so deep, so fathomless that there is no monolith that can chew on the bones of me.

Of course there is no peace, no color, because every universe is born out of agony and blackness.

****

A daily tarot card writing warm up.

<3

deck is the fountain tarot