MAGDALENE BRIDE
There’s guilt that I retch onto the floor, and my rotting flesh stains the chapel, seeping into the cracks more than any of my prayers ever could. I gnaw at my own ribs, scraping them to pieces. The priest has remnants of me defiling his mouth, and the stoic eyes gaping at me from the pews—painted the same white as the walls, which have long forsaken me—don’t betray their dignity. Their postures are perfect, their suits well-pressed, and their expressions unyielding. The one awaited does not show up; he has become a prayer. Instead, he turns the bend and smiles—a smile that hints at quiet encouragement.
My body hits the floor, my knees bleeding—applauses are what reverberate. The space reeks of jasmine and myrrh, and the cold bite of metal from the cross stings my skin. The communion wafers lie long forgotten, and the sacramental wine dulls with the passage of time.I witness the priest standing a few feet away, his hands trembling with hunger."Young girls have corruption in their minds," he says. The horror of Jesus, hanging limply from the crucifix, his hands bleeding where they’ve been nailed and his feet rupturing flesh, gapes at me with open eyes full of helplessness and dread. A rag—grey with time, stained with his blood that is infected with rejection—hangs at his pelvis. The wooden framework encasing his heart of impotence and throat of meekness withers and cracks in the sun, but the dews remain cold. The congregation jitters and jeers, repulses and admires, devours and purges—they merely talk.
The stained-glass windows have witnessed men and women alike, with the eyes of its saints gouged out and their presence bleached by the sun. The children sink their nails into my skin as they taunt with their smiles, the candles serving them, delighting in the play they call their game. They like their toy. The priest prays at my hips, the altar cold and unforgiving against my back. He probes and digs at my flesh, tearing at it, splitting the skin—it does not tear cleanly. It clings because it lies. It pretends to be whole. The fibers, caught in clumps, wrap around his fingers, the blood soaking into his robes. But the sinews keep winding around his nails as he sinks deeper into the pulp. I witness my gaze burdening Jesus; he trembles, but his feet remain heavy with inaction, his body slack—limp, listless, beneath the weight of his own faithless mercy. It starts slow—a tear—but then my skin stretches and squelches. The audience gasps and gapes, the children laugh, Jesus suffers the terror of ridicule, and the rosary beads are made ever more maroon with blood spooling onto them.
✅️Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #329 )✅️
‼️Please don’t skip taking a look 🍉🇵🇸I am
ahmad from Gaza. I am 26 years old. I stand before you as a person trying to preserve his family. 🇵🇸💔💔
We try to live under miserable conditions in tents in Mawasi Khan Yunis, south of Gaza. It is difficult for me to find the words to describe what we face every day in Gaza. No food, no medicine, no clean drinking water, oppression, helplessness, psychological pressures, doubts, and daily trauma due to the loss of loved ones. In Gaza, it's not just hunger, disease and fear; Rather, it means actual death.
With a heart weighed down by sorrow, I reach out to you, hoping that kindness and humanity still shine in this world. My family and I have lost everything—the home that once sheltered us, the walls that echoed with laughter, the warmth and security that every human deserves. The relentless attacks on Gaza have turned our lives into a daily fight for survival. What was once a place of comfort and love is now nothing but rubble, and we are left with nothing but the clothes on our backs and a fragile tent that barely stands against the bitter cold.
Now, our days and nights are consumed by hardship. The icy wind pierces through the thin fabric of our tent, leaving us shivering, with no escape from the freezing temperatures. Food is scarce, clean water is hard to find, and the most basic necessities have become luxuries beyond our reach. Every day, we struggle—not just to live, but to preserve the dignity that war tries to strip away.
Amid this suffering, a new life was brought into the world—my brother’s daughter, an innocent soul who took her first breath in a tent instead of a warm home, her tiny body wrapped in whatever scraps of fabric we could find. She was born not into joy, but into loss, into hunger, into the unforgiving reality of war. And as we watch her, so fragile and pure, our hearts break knowing that we cannot give her the comfort and security she deserves and we cannot provide enough milk, diapers, medicines, and vitamins for her😭😭😭😭💔💔💔
I do not ask for much—just a little help to keep us going through these unimaginable times. A warm blanket to protect us from the cold, food to fill our empty stomachs, or even simply sharing our story so that others may hear our cries for help. Every small act of kindness can make a difference. 💔🍉🇵🇸😭
Your generosity has the power to bring warmth to our freezing nights, hope to our despair, and life to those struggling to survive. May the kindness you extend be returned to you a hundredfold.
Donation link⬇️⬇️
you asked me what i ate today and i cough so hard pieces of my spine are thrown from my mouth. i taste blood every time you look at me like i'm something worth dying for. when i was twelve i broke my wrist. it never healed right so now every time you try to hold my hand my bones ache.
my mom says i remind her of her mom and that sometimes it's hard to look at me. it is spring and i hope the hummingbirds can't see into this house.
there are boys that claimed my body felt like home to them. i will never understand this because my hands still shake every time i place them around my neck asking myself how much longer until the thought of peace doesn't make me choke to death.
how can i be this tender and still bite my tongue so hard until everything i never said rots my teeth? i'd let my anger burn this city to the ground before letting anyone hear me say how sorry i am for everything i am not.
-unknown
they should make an august for grieving and being blue all the time and an august for.. well. enjoying the summer and living your life. and they should be in the same year
i love you fairy tales i love you folklore i love you myths i love you stories as old as humanity itself i love you oral traditions i love you characters carried through time on my ancestors’ tongues i love you story i’ve seen a million ways and want to see a million more i love you archetypes i love—
i hatee it how i cannot be at university for the rest of my life learning about my niche interests that are so special to me. Instead i have to settle for less and cater to a job that doesn't serve any meaning to me
the grief of loving too much is heavy but it is better than the regret of not trying at all
I am reaching out on behalf of my dear friend, Mohamad S., who is facing one of the most challenging times of his life. Mohamad is 37 years old and left his homeland in 2015 in search of a safer and better future. He’s a kind, hardworking man, and his small family has always been his greatest priority.
Living abroad, Mohamad has recently endured unimaginable loss and financial strain. Amidst the ongoing conflict in his homeland, his mother passed away, leaving behind his sister and her five young children—the last remaining members of his immediate family.
As the situation worsened, Mohamad managed to help his sister and her children escape to safety in Egypt, covering their immediate needs and securing a temporary refuge for them. Since then, he has been fully responsible for providing everything they need to survive during this transition.
In his efforts to support his family and cope with this devastating loss, Mohamad has found himself deeply in debt. To make matters even more difficult, he recently underwent knee surgery, which limits his ability to return to work for the foreseeable future. This has made it even harder for him to manage his financial responsibilities and the pressing need to provide his family with a stable future.
Mohamad is now working to bring his sister and her five children to join him in Belgium, where he hopes they can find stability and opportunity after all they’ve endured. This transition, however, requires significant resources that he is currently unable to meet alone.
For privacy reasons, we are not sharing Mohamad’s full name, as he has chosen to keep his identity discreet. While he initially refused the idea of asking for help, I couldn’t stand by and watch him struggle alone. I insisted on doing this for him because he deserves a chance to overcome these challenges.
Your contribution will help Mohamad repay the debt incurred during this difficult time, cover ongoing living expenses for his family, and assist with the costs involved in bringing them safely to Belgium.
Mohamad has been a good friend of mine for years, and I’ve always admired his resilience and generosity. Any support, no matter the size, will make an incredible difference in helping Mohamad and his family rebuild their lives after these painful experiences.
Thank you for reading his story and considering helping a man who has always done everything he can for his loved ones.
Adam
✅ Vetted by Association: @bilal-salah0
Donate & share: Donation Link
she/her ▪︎ my mind; little organization
177 posts