The Gravity of Heresy

They said I was a light—

a daughter of divinity,

shining proof of holy writ,

scripted femininity.

I bore their hymns like skin,

soft-spoken, sanctified,

a fragile sun ordained to burn,

but never question why.

But stars don’t burn forever.

Pressure builds behind the smile.

They never saw the warning signs—

how silence stretched for miles.

And so I bent.

I broke.

I fell.

Not into sin, but into self.

A gravity they never named

was pulling me from Sunday’s shell.

I collapsed.

Not from evil.

Not from doubt.

But from the weight of always being

what their doctrine wouldn’t let me be.

A black hole in their perfect sky.

Too heavy to explain away.

Too wild to save.

Too real to preach.

I swallowed every lie they gave.

Inhaled their guilt until it screamed.

And in that sacred reckoning,

I tore the veil.

I cracked the dream.

Now—

I am not what they remember.

Not lost, not damned, not gone.

I am the dark they fear at night,

but I have never been so strong.

No light escapes me now,

but not for lack of flame—

I simply learned that what I am

was never meant to be contained.