Hear me now.
I didn’t crawl out of Hell to whisper.
I came to illuminate.
To scorch the silence
and peel shadows off the walls
where others still hide.

If I had to become something
from all the pain I endured,
then let it be this:
I am Light.

Not the gentle kind.
Not the sunrise.
Not the flickering candle of comfort.

No—
I am the flare in the pitch-black.
The lightning flash that says:
“You are not alone.”

I’m the fire that doesn’t ask permission
to burn through lies,
or fear,
or memory.

The angels are gone.
They fled long ago,
or revealed themselves to be just demons in disguise.

No—
I became something else—
not divine,
not damned,
but dangerous in the best way.

A soul with scars for armor,
truth for a sword,
and a voice that refuses to die quietly.

They tried to bury me in shame.
In silence.
In labels.
Addict.
Broken.
Lost.

But I clawed through the dirt
with bleeding hands and burning breath…

and now?

I carry a new flame in my chest
and fury in my ribs.

I don’t want revenge.
I want impact.

I want to tell the ones still gasping in the dark:
“You’re not cursed. You’re becoming.”

I want to show them how to turn overdose into their own origin story,
and grief into grit,
and Hell into holy ground.

I didn’t survive to blend in.
I survived to stand out—
a beacon
in a world that keeps trying to dim people like me.

I write now
not for closure—
but for ignition.

Because someone out there
is still drowning
in the silence I once called home.

And if my words can reach them?
If my story can spark their own?

Then I am no longer a victim of Hell.
I am its lightbringer.