A Survivor’s Gospel, Written in Blood
A Survivor’s Gospel, Written in Blood
In the beginning, she believed the system would save her.
That the judges wore halos.
That the law was scripture.
That the truth—when spoken bravely—would part the sea and protect the innocent.
But the saints were silent.
And heaven looked away.
And still, she bled.
So she fled the altar of justice and built a new one from ruin.
With rage in her lungs, a weapon at her hip,
and a name too holy for men like him to whisper without burning.
This is not a love story.
This is a scripture carved into skin.
A prayer said with shaking hands and clenched teeth.
A resurrection through ruin.
A psalm for every woman who was called hysterical when she was actually divine.
This is Magdalena’s gospel.
Her devotion. Her damnation.
And Cain?
He’s the saint who never knelt.
The sinner who never asked for forgiveness.
The blade that answers every unanswered prayer with blood.
Step carefully, reader.
You’re on sacred ground now.
And the saints?
They don’t stay silent anymore.