Cancer Moon feels like saltwater memory, like candlelight trembling in the window of an old house, like love that remembers even what was never said. She is the emotional center that feels through tenderness, through intuition, through the quiet ache of holding too much with gentle hands. Her heart is tidal. It moves in cycles, in pull and retreat, in sacred waves that know when to cradle and when to hide. Cancer Moon finds emotion in home, in softness, in the smell of something familiar, in the voice that says you are safe here now. She feels everything through the body first- through the chest, the stomach, the ancient instinct to protect what she loves. There is something maternal about this Moon, even when she is breaking. She nurtures, remembers, gathers the broken pieces and tries to make them holy again. And if she retreats, it is not because she does not care. It is because some hearts must return to their shell to survive the sharpness of the world. She was not made for emotional indifference. She was made for devotion, for memory, for the kind of love that lingers in the walls long after the door has closed. Cancer Moon does not simply feel. She carries- deep, ancestral, and luminous as the sea under moonlight.

I learned the language of endings the way some girls learn hymns- by repetition, by kneeling, by swallowing the ache until it became a psalm. Grief is not a room. It is an ocean with teeth. It is a chapel built from salt and the names I can’t say without bleeding. I lit a candle for the version of me that thought love meant safety, that thought forever was a door and not a trapdoor. The flame did not comfort me. It watched. A small, gold eye refusing to blink. So I brought my sorrow to the altar like an offering I was tired of hiding- black ribbon, broken vow, a handful of midnight prayers still warm from my mouth. And I said: If I must be haunted, let it be by my own becoming. Let the dark be a womb, not a warning. Let the silence be a teacher, not a punishment. Let my heart learn new shapes without apologizing for the sharp edges. Tonight, I do not ask to be saved. I ask to be forged. I am the ink. I am the omen. I am the hand that writes the next door into existence- and this time, it opens from the inside #poetry #shadowwork #capricornmoon

“The Beginning of the End” Week 3/8/2026-3/15/2026 This week feels like the Universe handing you a red pen and saying: edit the chapter. Not rewrite your whole life. Not launch a brand-new identity. Edit. Repair. Renegotiate. We’re still in Pisces Season-so everything is spiritual, porous, symbolic, dream-heavy. But the plot twist is practical: the energy is pushing you to fix what’s leaking, clean up what’s messy, and stop pretending your nervous system is “fine” while your calendar looks like a crime scene. Quick Asteroid 101: Who are Vesta & Ceres? Vesta (asteroid) is the sacred flame-your devotion, focus, spiritual discipline, and what you protect as holy. In her high vibe, she’s consistency, ritual, purpose, the quiet power of “I’m devoted to this.” In her shadow, she can become burnout, obsession, isolation, or purity spirals that feel spiritual but act like a cage. Ceres (dwarf planet) is nourishment-how you care for yourself and others, your relationship with food/body/comfort, and the cycles of loss and return (hello, Persephone myth). In her high vibe, she’s steady care, self-trust, and sustainable growth. In her shadow, she can show up as overgiving, control through caretaking, or scarcity mindset dressed up as “being responsible.” The Big Sky Headlines: Mercury is retrograde all week, which means we’re in review, revise, renegotiate territory. This is not the moment to force a big launch just to prove you can. It is the moment to revisit old plans and make them smarter, cleaner, and more aligned. On March 10 at 5:22 PM EST, Vesta enters Pisces, and devotion turns mystical. Your spiritual practice wants consistency, not chaos. Keep it simple and repeatable—five minutes counts. Protect your energy like it’s sacred, because it is. Choose one “holy habit” for the week-prayer, journaling, a tarot pull, a bath ritual, meditation—and let that be your flame. Also: watch for escapism disguised as spirituality. If you’re “manifesting” but also avoiding your responsibilities… Vesta sees you.

POV: “Me trying to make small talk: Are you a real person or a matrix NPC?” This is 8th house Mercury energy all day: you’re not built for “weather + traffic” conversations. You want truth, motives, shadow, meaning. Small talk feels like eating air, so your brain tries to jump straight to the real stuff. Astro translation: you’re not “awkward,” you’re depth-oriented…and you can tell when someone is speaking in scripts instead of presence. I try to do small talk like a polite citizen. I really do. But my spirit is a lie detector with a poetry degree. So I’m standing there nodding like, “wow… crazy… love that…” while my eyes are screaming: Are you a real person? Or are you running pre-installed dialogue? Sometimes “small talk” is just a nervous-system warm-up. It’s not fake-it’s a doorway. The trick is giving yourself a bridge from light to deep without trauma-dumping or interrogating. Try one of these “real but normal” pivots: - “What’s been taking up most of your headspace lately?” - “What are you looking forward to right now?” - “What’s something you’re learning about yourself these days?” Journal prompt: -When I crave depth fast, am I seeking connection… or control/safety? -What question would I ask if I wasn’t trying to be “normal”? “I call in conversations with soul, not scripts.”

I found Him where the light forgets its name, beneath the floorboards of the world- where rivers keep their teeth and silence learns to sing. Not thunder. Not fire. Not the bright, theatrical gods who demand a choir and a crown. Water. Cold as a confession. Old as the first lie ever swallowed. Patient as rot. They call Him Enki- and the syllables taste like iron dragged across the tongue of a wound. Ea. A softer sound for a sharper truth. I came with my hands full of broken vows, with prayers that stank of desperation, with a throat stitched shut by all the things I would not say aloud. The Scorpio Moon was watching… that black-eyed lantern in the deep- pulling secrets up by their hair, asking what I’d buried and why I still pretended it was holy. Pisces season loosened the seams of me, dissolved the edges, turned my certainty into saltwater, turned my pride into a tide. And there- in the Abzu- the freshwater abyss that remembers everything- He did not comfort me. He instructed me. Not with mercy. With method. He showed me the hinge in the locked door. He showed me the hidden latch. He showed me that magic is not a mood- it is a craft, a blade you learn to hold without shaking, a language you stop mispronouncing when you’re done being harmless. So I poured a glass of cold water like a funeral for my old self. I salted it- a small, brutal kindness. I held it like a living heart and spoke in the voice I save for endings: Enki of the deep bright waters, witness me. Cleanse what clings. Sharpen what sleeps. Teach me the clever path- not the easy one. Not the pretty one. The true one. Let my words become medicine, even when they burn. Let my sight become steady, even when it ruins me. Let my power become skill, even when it costs me my softness. I will not lie to myself again. I will not abandon my gift. I will not drown in my own depths and call it devotion. I drank. And the water tasted like a vow- dark, clean, inevitable- as if the river inside me finally remembered