Amelia Onyx, formerly known as December Lace, is a captivating personality who has made her mark as both a professional wrestler and a pinup model. Hailing from Chicago, she brings a unique blend of strength, artistry, and individuality to everything she does.
Beyond her professional endeavors, Amelia has a deep appreciation for various forms of art and entertainment. She loves Batman, burlesque, cats, and horror movies.
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The Artist's Soul
Amelia's artistic expression extends beyond the wrestling ring and the camera lens. She is a poet. Her words paint vivid pictures of internal struggles, personal growth, and the complex relationship between pain and creativity.
Her poetry delves into themes of emotional and physical pain, the search for identity, and the struggle to maintain individuality in a world that often demands conformity. It explores the depths of personal experience, transforming raw emotion into powerful and evocative verses.
An excerpt from her poetry:
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A holy rage christens me, a baptism in my head // the fluid in my brain unsettling, curling, unfurling, poisoned ink infecting me // an ocean of pain // tainting what memories I’m allowed to have // the ghostly god shining down on me // casting his approval for what I can/cannot remember // He knows what’s best for me- // He can make my brain bleed, says it’s from my art, tells me it’s part of a plan // push me into a chapel // see how much I cry // then ignore me for six more days until I stumble back in // so forgetful // leaking out blood from my ears and he says it’s from the applause not from what I gave you // now go back out there you ungrateful bitch // I made you, I gave this to you // do you think I make faulty parts? // do you think you can really tell the difference between a cathedral and a grave?
His arachnid words get into my brain/ crawling all over the spheres/ piercing the amygdala/ spiking the serotonin/ severing the synapses. The toxic/ porridge thick words, they go down/ forcefully coating the inside/ of my curlicued skull/ ribbon tied outside/ belying how ugly and dark/ the poison really is that seeps below.
The show is done, he gets the performance he wants/ but there is no extraction for what he’s done, this is a brand/ hot and searing and a scar will surface/ that only I can see, for I am trained, the discipline damns me/ no limit on pain, whipped in line/ a begging ballerina, Russian strict but there’s an advance line/ for the next night I scream in the dark/ about how ugly I am, how my bones should be/ ground and pushed into the sea, deeper/ than the meanest pirates knocked about/ by violent winds and bored gods.
I cover my mirrors in shrouds/ buy powder by the pound and load all my self-worth into his shotgun mouth hoping the bullets won’t hurt this time, close my eyes/ and help him pull the trigger/ by offering him a seat next to me.
A Glimpse into Personal Life
When the lush, velvet buds of the roses fall to the polished floor of our atrium, my love, I’m reminded of a conversation that took place while you were attending a hearse showcase with Cousin It.
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The woman introduced herself as Amelia Frowd, the parent of one of Wednesday’s classmates, and the supervisor of the local Girl Scout troop.
Mrs. Frowd, who had arrived at our home in order to discuss Wednesday’s recently rejected application to the Girl Scouts, had some questions that she wanted immediately addressed about Wednesday’s behaviors.
I thought we might start Wednesday off with the local Girl Scout troop that congregates down the street. I’ve seen them a few times when Lurch is driving me home from the taxidermist or when I’m out for a midnight walk and their campfire reaches the blackened skies. I thought perhaps Wednesday could try out their group for practice in nightly ceremonies.
Apparently, they have a yearly ritual that involves the mass selling of sweets that place a spell on the populace that puts my own hexes to shame. I was counting on Wednesday to share this with me, but after the visit with Mrs. Frowd, I’m doubting that they dabble in the dark arts at all.
Though when she followed me through to the drawing room, she commented on the foyer being “somewhat dimly lit.” I explained that Wednesday and her brother had been playing with the electric chair all morning and the lights in the house had been sputtering on and off as a result.
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Our conversation started out pleasant enough, but she was appalled when I informed that her I stayed at home with our toddler son. I don’t suppose it was my staying at home so much as it was her seeing him crawl up the wall as fast as he did. He’s turning into an arachnid much faster than we’d expected, my darling.
Thing was supposed to be watching him during the visit, as you’ll recall, but with the little spider legs that Pubert has, I didn’t want to diminish our son’s accomplishment. I do hope he cultivates his crawling talents, my love. He’ll make a fine lurker one day.
After I revived Mrs. Frowd with some smelling salts--we’ll need to replenish our stock, dear, as she was not the only person to meet Thing this week--she collected herself and removed a three-page handwritten list of all of Wednesday’s behaviors that had struck her as “odd.” She said that most of them had tied in to the decision to reject Wednesday from the troop.
One example was when Mrs. Frowd’s daughter, Angela, had recently come home from school and she claimed that some of Angela’s garment was charred from a failed, non-sanctioned science experiment that resulted from Wednesday improperly mixing ingredients to a witch’s potion she found in an ancient grimoire.
She spoke of Wednesday trying to recruit some of the other girls in her grade to help her capture a wild bat for their class pet. I explained that although Wednesday had already had her rabies shot, I would speak to her about asking the other girls about their vaccination history before proceeding with any more hunting.
Mrs. Frowd said that one of the books Angela saw Wednesday was reading with a scalpel in her hands was Gray’s Anatomy, to which I responded, “It is advanced yes, but we do encourage higher levels of reading. We want Wednesday to get into a good college.
I was feeling that Mrs. Frowd had a problem with everything that Wednesday did, because she wrote down that while the other girls were eating granola bars with raisins and chocolate, Wednesday had unwrapped a “foul-smelling, burnt variation of roadkill” and was eating quietly by herself.
I asked Mrs. Frowd if Wednesday offered to share and when Mrs. I enquired if Wednesday had ever excluded any members at school from an activity or an outing. When she said she didn’t know, I told her that based off of her notes, it seemed as though Wednesday asked all the girls to join in to help capture the bat, for example, before that activity was stopped.
I clarified that Wednesday may do things a little differently, but that didn’t give the other children a reason to ostracize her completely.
The moment I realized that Mrs. Frowd would not tolerate Wednesday in the troop no matter what, I conceded that it wouldn’t be worth the time to argue for a place where our daughter would not be accepted or appreciated.
When Mrs. Frowd walked by them, she said couldn’t help but ask me why I had cut the rose petals off when they were clearly the most beautiful part. I informed her that the sinewy, thorny stems of the roses were the loveliest part to me.
I repeated a seemingly well-known adage that had been uttered by someone in my lineage, though I am not sure who; a phrase, darling, that had been turning itself over and over in my mind, ensnaring itself in the cobwebs of my dreams only for me to wake and think of it during my waking hours, allowing me to shape myself into the woman I am today: “Normal is an illusion.
But to the more important matter at hand, I think we should find a group that is more attuned to Wednesday’s interests, my love. Perhaps they can coax her out of her shell while also appreciating what she has to offer. There is a place for everyone.
Amelia Onyx's multifaceted persona, blending the worlds of wrestling, modeling, and artistic expression.