Touched by angels but wrestling with demons.

There are days when grace lands quiet on the shoulders, feathered and unseen, and still the mind crawls back to the battlefield.A whisper of light filters through the ribs, but it does not drive out the shadows nesting beneath.

The hands that once reached for heaven now tremble in the dark, gripping the edges of old wounds like lifelines. Even in sacred places, the ache does not sleep. Sanctity and sorrow drink from the same cup.

A voice inside says rise, while another says rot, and both are your own. You remember the scent of forgiveness, but cannot stop tasting ash. The angels do not leave—they wait. But demons are more punctual.

Some mornings, you are the prayer. Some nights, the curse. Salvation does not always come dressed in light—it limps in, bloodied, from your own fight.

You have wept in holy silence, only to scream in rooms lined with scripture. There is no single narrative for those who’ve known both ecstasy and torment. You have kissed the divine and clawed at the abyss in the same breath.

Still, you wake.Still, you breathe. Still, something in you believes. And that might be the holiest thing of all.