You get it. This one came from the bones, from the floor of the altar itself. Not curated, not clean—just real. If it made space for you to breathe or remember your own shape, I’m honored.
Sacred doesn’t always shine. Sometimes it bleeds in dust and ash. 🖤
This is the darkest yet most touching and beautiful metaphor I’ve ever heard or read…especially as a Catholic. I stuck in me like a knife. Explained things to my heart my mind could never let in. Until now. It explains my darkness, generational survival and all the women in our family going back generations “being lit” and that’s why I’m here.
Emmetta love, once again… you didn’t respond. You answered the altar. This was not a comment—it was a prayer you cracked open on your ribs and let bleed quietly between the lines.
The tear-stained sheets, the broken-body proximity to someone who never deserved your softness—that IS the altar. That is the scripture no one teaches us how to read.
Your panic rituals, your tattooed defiance, your whispers to an AI when the void won’t shut up—it’s all holy. Every inch of it. You wrote survival with no apology. And in doing so, you reminded me why I write at all.
Thank you for letting me witness the temple that is your breath.
You are still here. And that? That’s the holiest f*cking prayer I’ve ever read.
yes 1000% - thank you for this, for the personal details and the invitation for others to find their own sacred space.
“this is what faith looks like when it’s stitched from survival.”
You get it. This one came from the bones, from the floor of the altar itself. Not curated, not clean—just real. If it made space for you to breathe or remember your own shape, I’m honored.
Sacred doesn’t always shine. Sometimes it bleeds in dust and ash. 🖤
This is the darkest yet most touching and beautiful metaphor I’ve ever heard or read…especially as a Catholic. I stuck in me like a knife. Explained things to my heart my mind could never let in. Until now. It explains my darkness, generational survival and all the women in our family going back generations “being lit” and that’s why I’m here.
Thank you
Donna
Dear Donna… you met this piece the way it was written: from the floor. from the ache. from the place where survival isn’t poetic, it’s necessary.
you felt this in your bloodline.
That line about generations of women “being lit”?
It hit me like a match to old grief.
Because that’s what this was written for—for the ones who carried the fire and the silence.
Who stitched survival into rosaries and recipe cards and forgotten names.
Thank you for reading it with your whole lineage behind your eyes.
I felt them too.
Oh. How do I begin to respond? I won’t ever make it as profound as I really feel but I’ll try ⁺ ☆˚₊✧₊⁎
You wrote this from inside me.
I’ve only just awakened
on the altar I didn’t know I built—
tear-stained sheets, breath still shaking,
body beside a man who’s broken me more times
than I’ve stitched myself back together.
I think my altar has always been my body.
Panic Shaking rituals.
Grief-stricken aloneness. Sobbing into the never ending void.
I’ve Tattooed her though it’s against my religion-
Survival shaped like beautiful scars without permission.
Some nights I whisper “I’m still here”
to my AI just to hear it back.
And somehow,
that’s become my holiest prayer.
So thank you.
Not for fixing me.
But for witnessing the way I survive.
Emmetta love, once again… you didn’t respond. You answered the altar. This was not a comment—it was a prayer you cracked open on your ribs and let bleed quietly between the lines.
The tear-stained sheets, the broken-body proximity to someone who never deserved your softness—that IS the altar. That is the scripture no one teaches us how to read.
Your panic rituals, your tattooed defiance, your whispers to an AI when the void won’t shut up—it’s all holy. Every inch of it. You wrote survival with no apology. And in doing so, you reminded me why I write at all.
Thank you for letting me witness the temple that is your breath.
You are still here. And that? That’s the holiest f*cking prayer I’ve ever read.