Page 22 of Unclench Me Softly

Pillar One: The Sacred Unclenching

“What are you holding? What are you clenching? What are you pretending doesn’t ache?”

My uterus screams: Seb.

My brain screams: Asher.

My left boob thinks about Jax and perks up in protest.

I lean forward, forehead to the floor, and whisper into the mat, “I am going to die in this dome. And my tombstone will just say:‘She tried to lead a retreat, but got spiritually dicked down by multiple archetypes instead.’”

The candle flickers like it agrees.

Spiritual Snacks and What They Mean About You™

(A Very Sacred Guide to Snack-Based Soul Alignment by Bliss)

Croissant:You’re craving layers. Emotionally flaky, but in a sexy way. Secretly French in the heart chakra.

Berries:Your inner cub is active. Probably nesting. You may be entering a regressive healing phase or preparing to scream about your father.

Cold Pizza:You’ve stopped pretending. You’re real now. Emotionally unhinged in the best way. You’re ready to be spiritually railed.

Donut:You’re orbiting the void. Seeking sweetness without substance. You want someone to worship your hole (symbolically… probably).

Kale Chips:You’re lying. Even to yourself. Sit down and eat a pancake, babe.

Chocolate (Dark):You have trauma, taste, and a deep yearning to be blindfolded and told you’re doing so well. Probably have a Virgo moon.

Chocolate (Milk):You flirt with everyone. You apologize after sex. You deserve everything.

Trail Mix (with M&Ms):Your inner child is healing. You’re ready to walk barefoot into the forest and ask the moon for feedback. Possibly in love with three men and a tree.

Boba Tea:You’re soft, mystical, and powered by whimsy. You’ve probably done a protection spell on your last situationship. The universe says: keep doing it.

Bliss-ism #60/f:

Divine masculine energy should be firm, not fragile. Like a well-cooked eggplant.

Chapter Five:

Punctuality and Other Red Flags

The morning sun drips gold across the clearing, warm and syrupy, and the birds, too cheerful, too coordinated, are practically harmonizing. A breeze brushes through the trees like the forest itself is exhaling, long and slow, like everything is finally at peace.

Which is exactly why I know something’s off.

There’s a tingle under my skin, in that part of me that no amount of grounding crystals can shut up. It’s not anxiety. It’s not even intuition. It’s... spiritual static. The kind that pricks at the base of your neck when the universe is rearranging furniture behind your back.

I’m crouched outside Dome Two, halfway through duct-taping a tea light holder to a wind chime, because innovation is born from desperation and an expired glue gun, don’t come for me, when I hear it.

Tires. On gravel. Again.

My spine straightens before I even process it, vertebrae cracking like I’m 87 and cursed by a witch with a flair for metaphor. I stand slowly, squinting toward the guest circle.

And there it is.

A car. Parked with surgical precision like someone measured the distance with a protractor and an attitude. Obsidian black. Sleek and silent. Gleaming like it was detailed by guilt and generational wealth.

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