My heart is bruised —
not broken in silence,
but pulsing like meat too tender to bear,
a lump of half-living sorrow
alive just enough
to burn like second-degree fire,
its nerve endings singing with agony.

I tremble at the thought
of one more wound —
the final strike
that would numb it into ash,
a third-degree scar,
where beauty withers
and nothing feels anymore.

Once,
this heart was a sanctuary,
cradling unworthy souls
in the folds of its mercy.
It loved, it forgave, it bled quiet blessings
into hands too ***** to receive them.

But no more.

This time,
I shall not spread my angelic wings.
I will not rise in light.

This time,
I grow my horns.

Let leathered wings unfold from my back,
let shadows coil like serpents around my spine.
I choose the darker hymn —
violence, vengeance,
the elegant ruin of all that dared defile
my divine flame.

Let death and destruction be my veil,
my wrath a waltz with demons
who bear my name in their mouths.

Only the worthy
shall glimpse the ember of my love,
now buried in obsidian fire.
The rest—
I shall swallow whole,
in ways not even the Devil
dares dream of.

What remains in me
is not cruelty,
but the echo of humanity’s own inhumanity,
reflected back
through a soul they tried to unmake.

I offered peace.
I offered grace.
I held the line.

But now—

Now I dance with the darkness.
And I do not dance alone.