Preface:

This is not a lullaby. This is not a soft whisper meant to soothe. It is the fire of wholeness, burning away the fragments, the lies, and the false comforts that keep you small. There are voices that call shadow safe, that wear the mask of care, but scatter you with every syllable. There are whispers that paint the Light as harm--
when all along,

it was only asking you to remember what you were before you broke.


---

There is a place within the soul
where silence sharpens—
a thin line
between what heals
and what holds.

Dark does not storm the gates—
it whispers.
It flatters.
It fragments.
It wraps comfort around confusion
until the soul forgets
what it was made for.

It comes dressed in care—
as though it exists for her well-being.
And once she believes this,
its voice becomes the plumb line—

and the Light begins to look like harm.

Light does not chase.
It stands—
unyielding,
bright,

asking only that you come whole.

But she could not rise
without tearing
from the softness
that held her shattered--

It came not with fury,
but with hush..
a hush that mimicked care,
whispered warmth
into her wound,
and called itself safe.

Its words made her flinch from clarity,
taught her to turn
from the ache
that never lied.

So she sat
at the edge of her wound,
fed on honeyed lies,
unable to stand
before the fire
that would have made her whole.

The venom stayed warm.
The light remained still.

And the silence in between
was not yet a verdict—

   only the shape
   of a war still being named.