6d • General discussion
The Altar of After
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
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The Altar of After
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