I love you, angels. ♥︎

Happy Women’s Day to all the women God has created to fill the earth. The world is gentler and more beautiful because of the grace, resilience, and love that women give to it each day. 🌸

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ㅤㅤㅤ🩹ㅤᜆ ㅤ𝅼ㅤ 𝑯𝑨𝑰𝑳 𝑮𝑹𝑨𝑪𝑬
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ឲឲㅤ𓇬ㅤ..ㅤ‌
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ࣭࣭࣭࣭࣭࿚⏝۟♡۟۟۟࿚‌‌‌࿙۟۟۟۟‌‌‌♡⏝࿙࣭࣭࣭࣭࣭ㅤ


A quiet exchange, held with grace. / No haste, only names shared gently: As one might pass a blessing. If you wish to take part for us, @psalmianbot around 5-7 accounts. Leave a sign in silence. It will be returned with the same care from us,
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ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤWholeheartedly, daughters. ♡

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ㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤYou poor thing
ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤSweet, mourning lamb.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ❀ / SLAUGHTERHOUSE.

ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ
What follows is transmitted without addition or subtraction, and whatever weight it carries must do so on its own. I reach for your soul as one kneels in the dark, my voice lowered into prayer as it calls your name. My spirit burns beneath the weight of its own longing, pleading for the mercy of your hand to be laid upon me.
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Father always said He was the Savior. We all know how such stories tend to unfold. And I do believe. For there remains within me a quiet hunger—for the tenderness of freedom, and for the grace of His forgiveness, should it ever find its way to a soul like mine.
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   The partakers were black-booted, bedroom-eyed (drab paste of ground catechisms, methinks) rum it straight from the bottle to bitch about the red-haired girl who got away, or got saved whereabouts this one must be bled together herein, a carceral hymnbook pressed to a sweating thigh. The little Bible was always on a lap somewhere since I'm still drowned at the last taste of baptism. Homily, slammer. Oath, slammer. The same shame as greasepaint on a mercenary saint. Oh, siding peels.  𝄙𝄙


         "....Saint Anthony preached."
    N.B.  :     "KNEE OF BLOOD." ㅤ[.] 🦷🩸


   །' Bane of aftershave and wrath. Dreams in the kismet of after limbo and snowy pistils, but wakes to the drip in the conscience of good people? Oh, sure? Wherewith the phrase still going for-the-sake is to eat them, piece by terrible piece, to tear the white meat from the doctrine with teeth and chomp them all. Since this is the hopelace: "Shall we be saved? Could we be saved?" It matters less than the pineapple sweetness rotting on the breaths. A noose platted, soaked in ours, sling from the limp wrist. The anthem is the wet chapel of the cartilage of the womb. 



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upchar. 🗝️♥️

since psalmian's editor isn't here with us for a while

Let's do more SFS, guuys. We need more 🤧