The Left Wing and the Black Flame

I never set out to summon the darkness,
only to find the truth hidden beneath it.
And when the truth finally came,
it arrived like a storm that remembered my name.

And it called out to me.

The Pisces eclipse rose like a mirror between worlds.
The air was thick, almost alive, pressing against my skin.
I stood inside my circle, breath shallow, palms open,
calling to Hekate and The Morrigan.
Not for love. Not for vengeance.
But for release from what had bound me to the ache.
For the kind of union that begins within the heart
and moves outward like light finding its reflection.
I told them I wanted to be whole.
And the goddesses, as they always do,
took me at my word.

When the moon veiled herself in shadow, the visions began to stir, sliding through me like half remembered dreams.
They didn’t arrive gently; they ripped through me like wind rushing an ancient gate.
Echoes of dominance and grief,
the same soul circling again and again like smoke seeking flame. Faces, wings, shadows.
The fallen one, the Nephilim with only one wing.
The one who mistook my radiance for something to own.

The same soul wearing different names,
every time meeting me in the same story.
The taking of power,
the silencing of voice,
the dimming of flame.

For a heartbeat I wanted to turn away.
To whisper, “wait…not tonight, I’m not ready.”
But the moon, veiled in eclipse, pulsed through my veins like prophecy.
The tears came sharp and heavy,
cutting through me like blades of water.
This was warfare, not weakness.
Every tear carried the weight of lifetimes and the charge of release.
The energy that once held me captive
flowed out in waves so powerful the earth herself seemed to breathe with me.
And in that trembling holiness,
I knew the cycle had finally broken.

The Morrigan’s presence pressed close, feathers brushing the edges of my field.
Her eyes were obsidian fire, unblinking, ancient.
“Look,” she said as she pointed, and suddenly my spine remembered how to stand.
Then Hekate came, torchlight spilling like honey over the floor,
her voice low and steady,
“Remember.”

Their words were keys.
They opened the sealed chambers of memory until I saw a sky alive with gold and black fire,
a battle I had long mistaken for defeat.
He fell from the clouds screaming,
and it was MY hand, MY will, that ripped his left wing from his flesh.

I gasped, not from horror, but recognition.
The tremor that moved through me was power, not fear.
It was me coming home.

Across lifetimes I wept for the wounds I thought had ruined me,
never realizing they were the markings of my initiation.
Each bruise was a threshold,
each silence an incantation I had whispered long ago to call myself home.
I was never prey in this myth.
I was the tempest sent to rewrite it.

The goddesses moved behind me,
not as distant deities, but as reflections of all I had reclaimed.
Their breath met mine in the space between heartbeats,
their whispers dissolved into the rhythm of my blood until I could no longer tell who was calling whom.
They were never outside of me.
They had become the pulse within my own divine design.

I glanced at the black wing etched along my left arm
and understood this was no fucking memorial.
It was reclamation made flesh.
It turned that way because I commanded the tide to flow in my name.
It was the banner of a battle won,
the emblem of a woman who closed the book of bondage and rewrote her name in fire.

The flame that rose within my chest was black.
Not the color of ending, but of becoming.
It was the shade of origin itself,
the fertile dark that existed before creation remembered its own light.
It purified instead of consumed.
It burned through the ache of longing,
through every illusion that said I was incomplete.
And in the quiet after the fire, it whispered,
You were always whole. You were always enough.

As the moon released her shadow and the Earth took her first deep breath,
I remained kneeling, trembling. My body spent, yet my soul burning with reverence.
It was exhaustion and ecstasy intertwined.

A stillness so holy it felt like the universe pausing to witness itself.

A sacred stillness only rebirth could summon.

Now, when I speak, I feel the hum of that black flame beneath every word.
When I love, it burns steady and sovereign,
no longer reaching outward for permission to exist.
The memory of his face, of all his faces,
are no longer wounds, only lessons.
He was never my completion.
He was the mirror that revealed my strength.
He was the threshold I was born to cross.

And so I rise. Not untouched, but unafraid.
Carrying the left wing as symbol of balance,
and the black flame as proof that darkness can be holy.
I walk forward softer, yet sharper,
a living reminder that what was once used to break me has become the power that remade me.

This is not an ending.
It is a return. The stillness before flight.

On the night of my 40th birthday, beneath the Pisces moon that rules my rising,
the eclipse delivered me back to myself.
And now, the air tastes of iron and promise,
the flavor of victory… of becoming.
The sky stretches open, vast and merciful,
finally wide enough to hold all my light and all my shadow.

When you asked, “Who are you trying to go to war with?!”
I smiled.
With everyone who ever wounded me babe,
and with every version of myself that let them. For every self that has ever crawled through darkness to rise again.
I turned the pain to gold, the grief to fire,
and I wear every left wing I’ve severed as a crown of remembrance.

I am the left wing remembered.
I am the black flame eternal.
I am the torch and the tempest.
The woman who burned, rose, and remembered her fucking name.

And I am free.

ILY <3