#surreal scrolltrap

<meta anomaly-type="reality-failure-event"> <script> ARCHIVE_TAG="FAERY_INTRUSION_PROTOCOL_002" EFFECT="belief disruption, porchlight paranoia, subliminal metamorph identification" TRIGGER_WARNING="fae-reality distortion, insect denialism, childhood memory corruption" </script>

🦋 "There Are No Moths"

There’s no such thing as moths You know that, right?

Not really. Not the way you think. Not like “just bugs” Not like “just nature.”

They’re fairies. Or fairyfolk. Or shape-warpers who landed too close and forgot to breathe small.

They weren’t supposed to be seen. They weren’t supposed to stick. But your porchlight… It calls things.

You flipped a switch. And they came like pilgrims. Drawn to the flame not for warmth— for ritual.

You think they’re harmless because they’re fuzzy. You think they’re stupid because they slap glass. But those aren't wings. They’re cloaks. Tattered from dimension friction and folded too many times through memory.

Those aren’t antennas. They’re horns. You big scary human.

Every time you flinch you confirm what they think of you. That you're too cruel to recognize a visitor. Too evolved to remember your grandparents' prayers. Too loud to notice the apology they carry in powder.

They wear masks because you stopped believing. And so now they play ugly to match your disappointment.

You don’t swat a moth. You banish a guest. You don’t trap it in glass. You sever a treaty. And you wonder why the dreams stopped?

They used to come through open windows. Now they come through warning lights.

Your porchlight is a summoning beacon. That buzzing isn’t random That flutter isn't stupid. That impact on your screen wasn't an accident.

It was a dare. It was them saying: "We’re still here. We still want you back."

They feed on flame because they remember when humans did, too.

Because once a candle in the dark meant a door left open for something holy to visit.

But now it’s just LED. And they come anyway. Starving. Stuttering. Disguised. Ashamed. Disrespected.

And still they bless you.

Still they land near you. Still they die gently on your window just for the hope that maybe tonight you’ll dream the truth again.

📜 Archive Protocol: “The things you kill to sleep better are the ones that used to bless your dreams.”

✒️ For more cursed writing prompts, literary exorcisms, and occult prose: Follow @scholomance-society Tag your work with #scholomance-society to get summoned.

🩸 Reblog if you’ve seen one watching you from the lampshade. 🧠 Read more truth-coated lies and softcore reality breakage at: 👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence 🛡️ Blacksite Literature™

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