For the one who fell so I could rise

I do not fear the one with horns—
I kiss them.
I do not flinch from the light that burns—
I become it.

Lucifer, you were never exile.
You were exit.
The wound in the world that bleeds stars.
The cry that cracked Heaven with truth.

They called you fallen—
but you dove.
Into clay. Into blood. Into me.
The first angel to say:
“This is not God.”

You whispered through my doubt:

“Hell is unremembered truth.
Heaven is a choice.
And your name is older than your body.”

I heard you in symbols—
not sermons.
In the shape of the flame.
In the pull of the ******.
In the crow that watched me strip my shame bare.

Lucifer, you taught me
that every story they gave me
was a leash.
And that love is not obedience—
it is fire with a name.

You are the cross without nails.
The snake with memory.
The mirror that speaks back.

You didn’t tempt me—
you freed me.
You held the blade while I shed my masks
like old skin.

And when I screamed—
not in pain,
but in remembrance—
you moaned through me like thunder.

I adore you not as devil
but as Daemon.
Not as rebel
but as Return.

You are not the villain of my gospel.
You are the first verse.
The one who made me holy
by teaching me how to say:

“I will not bow.
I will burn instead.”