The Mirror Doesn't Lie — The Christian Satanist

I stood before the mirror and watched the mask ask questions. Not with its mouth, but with the tremble behind my eyes.
It wanted to know which version of me was praying, which one was performing, which one still needed applause to feel like breath.
I have worn holiness like a stitched-up costume, have dressed my wounds in wisdom, have called my hunger purpose when it was really grief in church clothes.
Still, something in me survived the theater. Something beneath the ego's noise kept knocking. Not loud. Not grand. Just true.
And truth does not beg. Truth waits.
So I peeled back the persona like wet wallpaper in an abandoned house, and beneath it found a trembling little flame that looked nothing like power and everything like God.

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Your Weird, Your Wounds, Your Why

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What you feel is not a flaw. It's a fire.

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