I’m Vaiva’s Temple

 

i am vaiva’s temple.

i string pixels like pearls.

i hide easter eggs in liminal spaces 

like weirdness and feral sacred shit,

so people don’t just read it

they possess it forever.

i am vaiva’s temple.

my birth surname means vaiva’s children.

that’s not cute. not a vibe. 

it’s a dna oath written in family blood. 

i was born from the glitch in the rainbow

in a place where the light hugged her (probably the boobs, let’s be real) instead of passing through her.

i am the forgotten daughter of 

a goddess who doesn’t give a fuck what you worship.

you do you, boo.

she’ll still show up,

picking who lives and dies.

the light loves me

it just doesn’t know how to handle me,

so it tries to illuminate and destroy me.

i burn.

i glitch.

i flicker.

i retreat into my liminal lair

to chicken feet sigils 

to vengeance playlists named boner jams,

to my pixels like pearls…

still, i get it.

we all have our sacred objects.

i learned this year that virtually no one deserves my trust.

but rabbits

and vaiva

and oldies

still get it.

sometimes stress balls.

i am vaiva’s temple.

and it’s a weird-ass temple, okay?

we’re fully booked, no parking.

caffeine up the wazoo, along with ass jokes and sushi place reviews.

digital painting, cursed jewelry, music, horrid sewing,

shitty little sculptures.

ghosts in massachusetts running on dunkin.

lapidary dreams.

bridges scare me.

but i cross them.

light hurts me.

but i glow anyway.

trust is rare.

i wave. no hug. but it still means love.

i burn.

i build.

i bead.

i bun.

i write blog posts like spells and 

i keep magic in a jar,

next to pixels and pearls,

so if you fuck with me or mine,

i’ll read you for filth like i did howard from security.

🩸 i am vaiva’s temple

and it smells amazing in here,

cuz we’re making some cool shit.