Cocooned carcasses murmur with the silent pulse of all that’s lain dead, entwined in shadows, bound by memory’s thread a feast bound tight in sorrow’s thread. Where the wild and wounded threads of what was are woven into something that trembles in silk between memory and fang. This is my loom, my confessional, my untangling place— where blog posts hang like dew-caught wings, poetry bleeds raw, and reflections glint in the gossamer light of what was. Each entry is a filament pulled from the heart of it all the golden mornings and midnight reckonings, the tender knots and the unraveled skeins, the frayed edges and the shadowed voids between the threads. This isn’t chronology— it’s the quiet spinning of the soul’s silk. It’s the liquefaction of love’s remains, the unspooling of devotion’s delicate web and desecration, the silver threads that hold it all together— fragile as dew, taut with venom’s promise. From rapture to ruin, from sacred to profane— this is the web, spun and ...

I don’t know what to do . Shamrock still lives in me—in my heart, my thoughts, my spirit. He’s taken up so much space that there’s barely room to breathe. I keep trying to find air, to find ground, but everything feels like drowning in the echo of a life that’s been erased. Fourteen years. Fourteen years of soul, body, love, rituals, seasons, ordinary days, sacred days. All of it, it seems, dissolved in under four months. He wears a ring now. Maybe married. That truth sits in my chest like cold stone. Not because he found someone. But because of the speed, the severing, the way he seemed able to turn the page on us without flinching—like I was a chapter he could just close. Like our sacred was forgettable. What now? Me? I’m still holding it all. Still haunted by the scent of what we built. Still praying to gods that no longer answer, for a love that now belongs to someone else. I walk through a world that’s become a hall of mirrors—everything reflecting what was, what might...

What really breaks me—what truly undoes me—is not just the divorce itself. It’s the eternal wall it has raised between us. A wall that blocks not only future intimacy, but even the possibility of reconnection. The laws—spiritual, sacred, immutable—stand like sentinels. And they are strict. Unforgiving. Once the covenant is broken, the path to reunion is sealed. Even if I wanted to try, even if I begged the heavens or opened every wound again— I am forbidden. That’s the devastation. It’s not that he left. It’s that even if he turned around, I cannot go back. Not without betraying what is holy. Not without desecrating something eternal that once bound us. So I’m caught. Not just between past and future, but in a full-circle snare. One side is closed by his absence, the other by divine law. There is no gate left. And that leaves me here. With the singularity of self. This monastic exile of one. This ache of being untouched, unreachable, unmoved. Not because I haven’t tried—but...