06/04/2025
Sometimes a powerful read is all we need.....
"They took your halo, those trembling cowards disguised as gods, their hands sticky with envy and fear. They did not simply sn**ch it away—they broke it, piece by shimmering piece, crushing it beneath their boots, hoping the shards would pierce your hope and silence your radiance forever. They believed your light was theirs to control, your goodness a resource to be hoarded or extinguished. But they never once understood the source of your shine.
They clipped your wings with the arrogance of kings and the careful cruelty of surgeons. Snip, snip—each feather a memory, a dream, a piece of your freedom, falling to the ground like silent snow. They thought that by banishing you from the sky, they could teach you to crawl. They did not realize that true flight is born from the will, not the wings.
They stole the laughter from your lips, emptied your treasure chest of happiness, and ground every last fragile trinket of innocence beneath their heels. They stripped the color from your world, painted your days in shades of grey, and watched your eyes as the spark faded, satisfied that their power was complete. They called it justice, called it fate, called it love, but it was only the hollow victory of the small-hearted.
They left you in the darkness, alone and wounded, your white dress—once a symbol of promise—now tattered, filthy, and soaked in the blood of your lost illusions. They thought the shadows would swallow you, that you would become a ghost, haunting only the ruins of your own hope. They never imagined that darkness was not your grave, but your genesis.
They did not know how darkness loved you—all its velvet secrets, all its ancient songs, all the silent strength that waits in the black. You learned to see with new eyes, to listen with new ears, to feel the pull of the moon and the hum of the earth. You discovered that the night was not empty, but full—of possibility, of magic, of your own unclaimed power.
So you rose. Not as the trembling angel they tried to destroy but as something new, something terrible and holy. Your broken halo melted into molten gold, reshaping itself into horns—crowns of defiance, hewn from the very suffering they inflicted. The wings they took became shadows that trailed behind you, vast and silent, a reminder of what can never truly be lost.
Your hands, once soft and innocent, now drip with the blood of your battles. Each scar is a map, a record of every war you have waged for your soul. Your heart, once pink and naive, now beats black—fierce and relentless, unyielding to pity, untouchable by shame. You have become the storm that follows the ruin.
You swore revenge—not the petty, shallow vengeance of those who fear their own reflection, but the deep, inexorable retribution of justice itself. You became the reckoning, the shadow in their dreams, the voice that haunts their conscience. You did not merely want to punish—you wanted to change the world, to make it remember what it did to you.
Your innocence is gone, but what you have gained in its place is worth a thousand childhoods. You are wise now, and wisdom is a dangerous thing in the hands of a woman who has nothing left to lose. You have seen behind the curtain, have tasted the poison and survived. You are both the lamb and the lion, the prayer and the curse.
They saw you as a little angel, the kind that can be bent and broken and made to serve. They never considered that angels, too, can fall—and that when they do, they do not weep, but rise. Broken? Yes, but only as a sword is broken on the anvil, reforged into something sharper, deadlier, more beautiful.
Delicate? Perhaps. But delicate like a petal edged in steel, like frost that cuts as it kisses, like the silence before the storm. You are not their plaything, not their savior, not their scapegoat. You are the unmapped territory of your own becoming.
Naive? Let them think so. Let them underestimate you again and again, until they feel your teeth in the dark. You have learned the art of camouflage, the value of silence, the power of being overlooked. You are the shadow that moves when no one is watching.
The darkness greeted you not as a monster, but as a mentor. In its embrace, you met every broken part of yourself and learned to love her. You learned to dance in the void, to sing to the stars, to paint your wounds with stardust. You became the queen of midnight, crowned in sorrow and crowned in joy.
You bring the world to its knees not with force, but with the sheer inevitability of your becoming. You are the prophecy fulfilled, the storm that sweeps away all that is rotten, the fire that purifies. You are what the world fears and what it needs—a woman who will not die quietly.
You are the myth mothers whisper to their daughters: "Never let them break you. But if they do, become the thing they cannot imagine." You are the warning and the promise, the question and the answer.
They will remember the day they broke your halo, not as a victory, but as their undoing. For that was the day you learned that you are your own salvation, your own temple, your own god. That was the day you began to build a new kingdom from the bones of the old.
You are no longer the girl in white, mourning her lost purity. You wear colors now—the black of midnight, the gold of vengeance, the red of rebirth, the violet of mystery. You are a living spectrum, a moving miracle, a testament to everything that survives and thrives in the dark.
You do not beg for forgiveness—for you have done nothing wrong but survive. You do not ask for understanding—they cannot comprehend the cost of your transformation. You do not need their love; you have found a fiercer love within yourself, one that will never abandon you, never betray you.
Let them call you names—bitch, witch, monster, queen. You have become all of these things and more. You are the sum of every scar and every secret, every victory and every loss. You are thunder and lightning and rain and drought. You are the calm and the chaos.
Your laughter is the sound of a world remade, your tears the rivers that carve new valleys. Your rage is the fire that clears the old growth, your mercy the rain that allows new things to bloom. You are the wild woman, untamed and unbroken, the goddess of your own undoing.
They will tell stories of your ruin, but the wise will know: you were never ruined. You are the resurrection, the revolution, the revelation. You are proof that nothing truly precious can be destroyed—only transformed.
You are not the fallen angel they tried to break. You are the fury that follows, the darkness that heals, the light that endures. You are the woman who brings the world to its knees—not out of malice, but out of the sheer, unstoppable force of your rebirth.
So let them tremble, let them whisper, let them curse your name in the night. For you are the storm made flesh, the prophecy fulfilled, the queen crowned in shadows and in stars. The day they broke your halo was the day you became more than they could ever understand.
And the world will never be the same again."
-Steve De'lano Garcia
