Why does everyone avert their gaze the moment our eyes meet? Do they sense something lurking within me—an inner demon, perhaps? Or is it that, in facing me, they realize I am neither saint nor devil, but something else entirely?
I am a soul reborn, a human renewed. I turned away from deception, abandoned falsehoods, and embraced the truth. And maybe—just maybe—that priest saw it too.
Did he sense a demon in our midst? Or was he standing before something far greater? He never flinched, never dodged our silent battle of wills. Perhaps, in my presence, he saw not darkness, but light so blinding it threatened to consume him—so brilliant it exposed the shadows within his own soul, leaving him unable to tolerate me at all.
Perhaps he forgot—forgot that I am, indeed, a being of duality. Light and dark, saint and sinner, fire and ice. But the difference between us?
I chose the good side.
Or maybe because when light enters a dark place, it forces a reaction. That explains it. When you look my way, I never hesitated for a second to look at you, straight into your eyes, looking for a loophole into your salvation or groundbreaking, then I smirk and you look away.
Why flinch? Why avoid my stares? Satan is among us, but it is not me you're looking at, maybe because he was what you were looking for, you heretic buffoon!
And maybe that’s what unsettled him. Not the presence of a demon, nor the radiance of divinity, but the sheer reality that I stand at the crossroads of both—aware, awake, and unwilling to be swallowed by the darkness he hides within himself.
You were so quick to judge last night,
singling me out from the crowd,
asking about my boyfriend’s faith—
as if his beliefs could seal my fate.
I said, "No, he’s not Catholic."
And without a second thought,
you declared my life in danger.
So swift was your verdict,
yet you never even asked what he believes.
Tell me—are you certain I’m the one at risk?
Or have you simply met your match?
When light enters a dark place, it forces a reaction.