Be quiet. Lower your voice. Hide your flame. Swallow the fire, choke on the smoke. Suppress your feelings. Don’t question anything. That’s what they demanded. But I know the truth is that my rage is holy. Sacred, like the earth cracking open, not to destroy, but to heal. To make space for what was always meant to grow. I don’t need the church to tell me I’m holy. I don’t need a prayer in someone else’s tongue to show me that the divinity in me is real. My soul is my sanctuary. Every pulse, every breath, a hymn sung by the universe herself. I am holy because I exist. Because I feel this rage, this fire, this burning grief. It is not a curse. It is the medicine of my soul. The alchemy of my becoming. My rage is sacred because it honors truth. It unearths what was buried. Demands justice for what was stolen. In this heat I remember who I am. Not a caged being, but a storm wild and free, tearing down false altars so I can rebuild in my name. I am holy not because they say so, but because my soul remembers. The stars that forged me in their fury. The earth that holds me steady even as I tremble. The fire that rises, unyielding, untamed, refusing to die inside me. This rage is not destruction, it’s a resurrection. A reclamation of everything I was told to silence. It is the roar of my spirit. So I honor this rage. This sacred, burning force that reminds me I am holy. Not because of a god outside of me, but because the divine within me.
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