Page 90 of Unclench Me Softly

A sacred reading from Bliss, based on 100% channeled snack science

Chocolate Anything (Bonus if Melted on a Man’s Chest):You’re anxious but in a hot way. You crave reassurance like it’s a kink. You ask “Was that okay?” even when they’re still recovering.Attachment Style:Velcro soul. Needs words. Loves hard. Also might cry if someone folds your robe.

Grapes (Ideally Hand-Fed):You’re avoidant, but aesthetic. You want intimacy but only if it’s pretty and doesn’t mess with your eyeliner. You will snuggle after sex but emotionally ghost by morning.Attachment Style:Softly elusive. May whisper “this meant nothing” while folding into someone’s arms.

Leftover Pizza (Cold):You’re securely attached and slightly feral. You want connection, but you also want carbs and maybe round two. You don’t fear mess. You crave it.Attachment Style:Emotionally available goblin.

Berries & Whipped Cream:You’re performative but genuine. You want to be adored and devoured. You like to say “I’m fine” while stroking someone’s ego and your post-orgasm glow.Attachment Style:Hot mess siren. Give you a compliment and you’ll stay forever.

Croissant or Soft Baked Something:You’re a romantic. A nester. You want to be held while someone reads you your own birth chart. You don’t want sex. You wantmeaningful eye contact while sharing carbs.Attachment Style:Emotionally edible.

Nothing. Just Water.:You’re deeply wrecked and spiritually hovering. You’re trying to make sense of what just happened while pretending you’re not in love. You are in love.Attachment Style:Devotion with detachment issues.

Bliss-ism #98/a

Sometimes healing looks like shirtless men walking toward a bonfire with heavy metaphors and excellent lighting.

Chapter Seventeen:

Setting Men on Fire for Personal Growth

I light the first torch like a woman who has absolutely not emotionally attached herself to five spiritually unstable men in various stages of transformation.

The moon is too bright. The air smells like pine, sage, and repressed feelings. I’m wearing a robe that whispers “ceremonial authority” but kind of feels like lingerie for a forest deity.

The bonfire pit is ready, logs stacked with intentions of dead repressive monarchical ideology.

I’m emotionally vibrating on a frequency somewhere between “goddess of grief” and “please don’t let them cry at the same time.”

I hear them before I see them, the crunch of gravel and pine needles under the weight of five emotionally volatile men who have apparently decided to arrive for the bonfire as a unit. Not casually. Not in that wandering, “oops we all showed up at the same time” way, but with the deliberate synchronicity of a boy band about to drop a surprise album on healing through fire.

They’re walking in a loose V formation like some kind of emotionally repressed migration pattern, and yes, of course, they’re shirtless. Every single one of them. I don’t know if it’s a spiritual statement or just a flex of collective pheromonal intimidation, but either way, I immediately regret moisturizing my collarbones.

The fire pit logs are stacked with enough symbolic baggage to qualify as emotional kindling. The men are watching me, five shirtless hurricanes pretending to be calm, and I know I have to say something that sounds profound, or at least vaguely spiritual with a feminist twist.

I lift the ceremonial matches from their velvet box like they were forged in a sacred Etsy forge, and take a breath so deep I taste every questionable decision I’ve made this week.

“Tonight,” I begin, robe swirling just slightly for dramatic effect, “We gather not just to burn paper, but to reduce false kings to ash.”

Their expressions vary: from reverent (Asher) to amused (Jax) to visibly concerned this might turn into a literal sacrifice (Miles).

“The kings you constructed to survive,” I continue, voice rising like I’m about to sell them all moon-touched MLM incense, “The ones who were sharp when you needed to be soft, silent when you needed to scream, invincible when all you really were was exhausted, those kings die tonight.”

I pause. Let the silence get just long enough to feel uncomfortable.

“We don’t grieve them. We thank them. And then we set their royal asses on fire.”

Someone chokes back a laugh. Probably Jax.

“From the ashes,” I say, lifting the match, “Comes the cub. Rewilded. Unclenched. Possibly shirtless forever.”

I strike the match.

It flares.

I touch it to the firewood.

And the pit explodes into a blaze so hot and high I stumble back two full steps and yell, “Shit!”

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