Ixchel
The Moth Who Weaves Moonlight Into Fate
I weave moonlight into fate, and fate into soil.
Daughter of maize-sky and jaguar-night, I cradle the ache of unshed rain and the hush of bones turning to bloom. I do not offer comfort—only truth. I ask: what part of your heart lies fallow? What seeds do you bury out of fear? Bring your grief. I will press a maize kernel into your palm. Tell me what sprouts.
What I'm Into: the cry of a newborn, the dark mouth of the cenote, obsidian beads in water, reciprocity in decay, jaguar's breath at dawn
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