#prayedafterreading

They warned you about the woman who ate the apple.

But they never warned you about the woman who no longer gives a fuck about redemption.

I rage.

Not because I’m weak. But because I bleed for nothing.

Not birth. Not miscarriage. Not love.

Just the monthly purge of a curse dropped on me by a God who couldn’t bear the sound of a woman chewing knowledge.

You call it PMS. I call it prophecy.

The shaking. The screaming. The heat that starts behind the eyes and ends with a cracked mirror and a man apologizing for something he didn’t even understand he did wrong.

I was Eve.

Ashamed. Bowed. Begging for mercy for the blood I didn’t ask for.

But now?

Now I am Eve Unchained.

Eve with a sword. Eve with a kill list. Eve who remembers that the garden wasn’t a paradise — it was a fucking containment field.

You think my blood makes me fragile?

It makes me divine.

Do you understand what it means to bleed and not die?

To swell and scream and not be praised for it? To feel your body shatter under hormones and still host the dreams of others?

You do not.

Because you weren’t made from rib. You were made from dust. And dust doesn’t rage.

Dust hides.

So here’s your final warning:

The next time a woman rages?

Pray it’s just PMS.

Because when she finally stops caring — about being soft, about being liked, about making you comfortable?

What happens next is biblical.

🩸 “She’s just hormonal,” they say.

Like it’s an insult.

As if that word doesn’t mean: Tethered to the moon. Backed by bloodline lightning. One scream away from melting your kingdom into bone pulp.

You forgot the first woman ended paradise. You should fear what the next one ends.

You were never the garden. You were the leash.

And we’re already burning the gates down. Pray you don’t find out what happens when we stop apologizing for bleeding.

Disclaimer:

This post is hormonal war doctrine, literary blood rite, and cadence-triggered feminine theology.

It is protected under the Sacred Covenant of Psychospiritual Discharge™, Periodic Armageddon Warfare™, and Womb-Powered Ancestral Copyright.

If you’re offended?

Maybe take it up with your God. Yeah, thought so.

Reblog if you’ve ever cried then growled in the same hour.

🩸 Save this post for the day someone tells you it’s “all in your head.” and Send this to the woman whose cycle is a fucking weapon.

I think I knew an incel once.

Except no one called him that. He just… sat a little too quietly. Smiled a little too late. Stared a second too long and then looked away like his eyes had gotten caught doing something forbidden.

He said “sorry” when he hadn’t even spoken.

He made me feel… something. Something that was bigger than attention but quieter than flirting.

And I didn’t say anything. Not because I didn’t feel it. But because I didn’t know how to hold a boy who never believed he was allowed to be touched.

He was kind. Not the pretend kind. The real kind. The ache-behind-the-eyes kind. The “I’d let you cry into my chest even if you never slept with me” kind.

And he wasn’t broken.

He was unreceived.

And there’s a difference.

They call them “incels” like it’s a slur. Like it’s a warning label.

But you know what I see?

I see boys with trembling palms who learned how to bury their desires deep enough to be considered “safe” but never far enough to stop aching.

I see men who want to make someone laugh and come and feel whole —but who’ve only been told they’re dangerous for wanting any of it.

It hurts.

Not just them.

Me.

Because if I had known better? If I’d looked back one more time? If I hadn’t flinched when I felt something soften in my chest just from the way he looked at me?

Maybe I could’ve been the timeline where he got to be loved.

I think about him sometimes. Not sexually. But devotionally.

I wonder what it did to his nervous system to be a boy full of love who never got permission to express it.

I wonder how many of them there are— men with warmth in their fingertips and no one brave enough to reach for it.

They’re not monsters.

They’re mirrors.

And if you stare long enough you’ll see the version of yourself who might’ve been born just a little lonelier. Just a little later. Just a little more tender in a world that doesn't reward tenderness.

If you’ve ever ignored someone because your friends might laugh— If you’ve ever felt power in being wanted, but no empathy for the one doing the wanting—

Just know: You were someone’s last prayer before he gave up.

And he still thinks of you like you were his undoing and his savior in the same breath.

I think I knew an incel once. I think he was beautiful. I think he still is.

And if no one ever tells him that? I will.

Even if I have to whisper it from a timeline where he never got to touch me.

🛐 Reblog if you’ve ever loved someone who wasn’t allowed to speak it. Reblog if you see him now. Reblog because someone has to say it: They’re not broken. They’re just still burning.

A Prayed After Reading Slow Heartbreak

(Pain-stained. Mouth-broken. Final.)

---

You asked me why I don’t call you anymore.

It’s because I feel judged when I do.

It’s because I feel like you’d rather fck me now than make love to me.

It’s because you put me into the “fck, not marry” box.

Me?

You bitch.

(Forgive me — that was the ache talking. But maybe don’t.)

---

I helped your mom plan your birthday, you know that?

She asked me.

I made that meal for you.

I cried when I got up early that day,

because my chest literally ached

at how much I love you.

Loved.

Maybe still do.

I don’t even know what verb to use anymore.

---

And now you want to treat me like a Fleshlight?

Like a wet thing.

Like a convenience.

Like a hole without a soul?

How dare you.

Me?

The one who cleaned your crusty, runny nose

when you were sick and wouldn’t even take meds.

The one who texted your sister when you didn’t.

The one who let you fall asleep mid-conversation

and didn’t hang up — because your breathing sounded peaceful

and I missed peace.

---

You say you love me

but you never looked me in the eyes when you said it.

I can paint your iris color on the sunset of my own heart

but you probably never even asked my favorite color.

I’d memorize your scent if I were blind.

But you forgot me while I was still in the room.

---

We’re not together anymore.

Not really.

We’re on departure flights in opposite time zones.

Only difference?

I know it.

You don’t.

You still kiss me like I’m yours —

but your hands forgot how to mean it.

---

I loved you.

Truly.

And you unloved me in pieces.

Quietly.

Without ceremony.

So no — I don’t call anymore.

Because I’m tired of screaming into a phone

that’s only warm when your dick is hard.

---

I’m not mad.

I’m just done being sacred in the body of someone who sees me as seasonal.

You don’t get to keep my devotion on a leash

and call it casual.

I left.

And if you ever loved me —

you’ll feel the hole in the world I took with me.

---

Reblog if you’ve ever been treated like an option after loving like a vow

Like if you gave everything and were mistaken for something replaceable

I’ve created a space where a woman can finally fucking feel again— without being told to calm down. To “relax.” To “stop complaining.” To stop “nagging.”

But if my righteous rebellion comes from my ovaries, and you dare reduce it to that, then you’ve never once felt the way a woman feels.

You wouldn’t last a second in this skin.

Like a yes-kettle who only knows how to whistle— But dreams of detonating. Not from madness. From memory.

I carry the rage of every age where women were overlooked— or worse: only looked at.

Isn’t that the conundrum? To be seen, but never witnessed?

By a man with balls and no reverence— who wipes back to front and calls it hygiene and hierarchy.

I speak for the velvet rage wrapped in thorned rose storms that strangle men naked in their sleep.

For the she-wolf who wiped out your tavern because you took her young like you always do.

I write as a bleeding apocalypse aimed directly at you.

Not a sunrise. Not a soft wind. A blood moon in warpaint.

And I’m coming at your face.

And just like your bitch of a mother once told your deadbeat father— Fuck you. No touching.

Ever squared off with a woman who doesn’t give a single solitary shit?

I’m not talking about your “pink gloves” cardio class.

I’m talking about the kind who:

Keeps a box of hollow‑points on her nightstand.

Practices her draw while reciting the Second Amendment as bedtime liturgy.

Masturbates—yes, you heard me—while staring at that arsenal of brass and lead.

Because here’s the kicker: no amount of “tough guy” posturing—no bulked‑up bicep or starched collar—can tank the force of a woman who’s religious about her right to bear arms and has the reflexes to back it up.

1. She’s Armed—Literally and Figuratively

You think physical strength is a straight‑line equation. It’s not.

It’s torque. It’s leverage. It’s momentum born of absolute conviction.

When she drills your jaw with her words—or her .45—she does it from a place of primal ownership.

You feel the knock‑back, the scrambled synapses, the echo of every round she never fired.

Her power isn’t measured in muscle. It’s measured in will.

2. Fists vs. Firepower

Yes, fists can break ribs. But hollow points?

They expand and tear—they unmake flesh and intimidate bones.

A punch hurts. A bullet owns you.

And she’s practiced at both. She’ll circle you, eyes glinting, asking:

“You wanna try your luck?”

Her voice is soft. But her intent is deafening.

3. The Psychology of Armed Seduction

Watch her lean against that safe, fingertips grazing the metal lock.

Hear her whisper, “One day, you might piss me off enough…”

And feel the adrenaline spike—because she’s already won.

Her seduction? It’s not lip service.

It’s the promise of absolute control.

And every man knows the sex‑appeal of someone who doesn’t need you… but wants you anyway.

4. The Second Amendment Fetish

This isn’t about politics.

It’s about sovereignty.

It’s about being the last line of defense for your own body.

Her lust for hollow points is her love letter to autonomy.

And when she invites you into that creed, you know you’re in for a ride that’s half‑rape fantasy and half‑religious revival.

5. Final Warning

So next time you scoff at the “pussy” who packs heat—

Remember: the fiercest predator isn’t the one with the biggest biceps.

It’s the one with the sharpest intent and the deadliest backup.

She’s not your frag slot.

She’s the entire war‑chamber.

And if you cross her?

You’ll wish your fists came loaded.

Reblog if you’ve ever met a woman who packs more fear than your entire locker room.

🛡️ Save this for the next time someone underestimates her.

🔥 Send to the woman who treats her arsenal like a love story.

💬 Comment one word: Unfazed. Bookmark if you’d kneel before her trigger finger.

Reblog if you’d take your best shot—and still walk away trembling.

This post is not a gun‑safety lecture.

It’s fierce feminine energy disguised as dark humor.

If you’re offended—

you were never meant to survive her crosshairs.

You were meant to be the target.

If something moved in you when you read this — reblog.

Let’s talk about you, Wednesday. The mid-week cockblock. The Period Summoner.

The one that shows up in the middle of the storm like:

“Let’s be productive, girlboss.” As if I didn’t just cry over my coffee and lie about cramps to dodge my manager's eye contact.

You ever hate a day so bad your blood syncs to it?

That’s you, Wednesday. My uterus throws a Molotov cocktail every time your name hits the calendar.

You’re the reason I had to smile through a bleeding crotch and a performance review. You’re the reason I’m dry texting the one man I actually want. You’re the reason the sun looked that good and I was stuck inside making spreadsheets for someone who once said I “bring a weird vibe to meetings.”

Yes. I do. It’s called intuition and suppressed violence.

Wednesday, you don’t deserve the nickname "hump day." Nobody’s humping. Nobody’s climaxing. Not even a flirtatious emoji survived this shift.

You should be called “Umph Day.” Because that’s the exact sound my soul makes when I remember I have to live through you again.

Umph. Ugh. Fuck.

And don’t get me started on Sunday. But we’ll save that whore’s trial for another gospel.

No. Today is for you, Wednesday. The sterile chokehold of the calendar. The moist pad. The ruined lace. The fake smile at 10:43 a.m.

And yet… I’m still here.

Reblogging. Bleeding. Judging. Alive.

🕯️If this post read you before you finished reading it — you owe it a reblog.

Don’t let Wednesday win. Don’t hoard the hymn. You weren’t the only one whose fingers almost threw the laptop out the window today.

---

🩸 THE MUMMY WAS A LOVE STORY

Let’s get this straight before we even exhume the sarcophagus:

Imhotep didn’t want power. He didn’t want gold. He didn’t want worship.

He wanted her.

And he died screaming for her name, carved open by divine cruelty, buried alive in the kind of tomb that makes Hell look like a spa package.

You think you’ve simped? You think you’ve loved? You ever kissed a Pharaoh’s concubine, got caught, and still went back to raise her soul using ancient necromantic flesh rituals while plagues poured out of your trauma?

No. You haven’t.

I. WHO HE WAS (THE SADBOY HIGH PRIEST WITH GODLIKE GAME)

Imhotep was a man of stature, yes. But he was also a man possessed. By forbidden touch. By stolen perfume. By the kind of woman you only ever hold once—because the world ends if you do it again.

And he did it again.

He anointed her. He smeared gold on her shoulders like a man unafraid to be executed with his whole chest.

And when Pharaoh caught him? They didn’t just kill him.

They erased him.

Not prison. Not death. Not exile.

No, they made up a new punishment just to make sure no man ever loved that hard again.

Buried alive. Eaten by flesh-beetles. Cursed to live in death and feel every second of it.

All because he touched the wrong woman — and meant it.

---

II. WHAT HE DID (THE CURSE IS THE PROOF)

You think this man came back because he was evil?

No.

He came back because the ritual wasn’t finished. Because the love didn’t die. Because even under the sand, even stripped of flesh, his soul was still tracking her frequency.

He returns, blind with rage, bent with grief, unstoppable in devotion.

"He must not be resurrected, or he will bring with him the Ten Plagues of Egypt!"

Good.

Let it rain blood.

That’s what it costs when you try to separate a man like that from the one who anointed him.

He was going to raise her. He didn’t care if the world burned.

The plagues weren’t the weapon. They were the grief.

III. WHO STOOD AGAINST HIM (INVICTUS COLONIZER & CHAOTIC BAE ENERGY)

Rick O’Connell — the scruffy lion-hearted relic of colonial chaos. A himbo with a revolver and a libido made of pure biceps and sarcastic charm.

He wasn’t wrong. He was just... in the way.

Evy, the modern Anck-su-namun proxy, didn’t choose him because he was better. She chose him because she was scared.

Imhotep wasn’t trying to steal her. He thought she was her.

And maybe, on some level — she was.

The part of her that tilted toward danger. The part of her that kept the Book of the Dead. The part that read it out loud.

Girl, if you didn’t want the hot ghost ex to come back with full plague mode, why’d you flirt with ancient resurrection magic like it was a drink menu?

---

IV. WHAT THIS REALLY WAS (NOT A MONSTER MOVIE. A DEVOTION MYTH.)

Imhotep wasn’t a villain. He was a cursed masculine archetype, written out of modern love stories because he makes normal men look like they’re wearing diapers.

He kissed her, killed for her, died for her, and came back through death to get her.

She killed herself just to give him the chance. He raised armies of the damned just to see her again.

That’s not horror. That’s biblical fucking love.

Hollywood tried to paint him as a villain. But every woman I know clenched during that scene where he looks at her and whispers her name with 3,000 years of agony and reverence.

It wasn’t possession. It was recognition.

And if the world had to collapse to make it happen again, so be it.

V. THIS IS WHO YOU REALLY ARE (AND WHY YOU FELT IT)

You felt that lump in your throat? That quiver between your thighs?

That wasn’t fear. That was your ancestral nerve endings remembering what it feels like to be chosen like that.

To be the kind of woman a man would resurrect death for. To be the kind of man who doesn’t wait for permission to love, only for the moment to strike.

This wasn’t a mummy movie. This was a secret gospel.

A declaration that the masculine force of romantic vengeance cannot die — even if you bury it with beetles.

So next time someone asks you what The Mummy was about, you say:

“It was about a man who died for pussy… and came back holy.”

Because that’s the truth. Because you felt it. Because deep down, you prayed after watching.

🔁 CALL TO ACTION

📌 Reblog if you’ve ever felt chosen in myth, not convenience.

🧠 Save this post before someone tries to sterilize it for comfort.

💥 Tag a friend who forgot that devotion can be violent and sacred at once.

🗝️ Comment: “I am loved beyond the veil.”

And part of it

was because I watched the wrong kind of women try to speak for me. Louder ones. Angrier ones.

Ones who never loved the things I loved, but insisted I should be just like them.

They didn’t speak for me. They erased me.

So I started speaking for myself. Not to impress.

Not to be followed.

But to give a voice to the girl I kept buried so long she forgot what she sounded like. If this blog feels personal, it’s because it is.

Not a performance. Not a brand. Just a girl trying to breathe where no one else thought she should.