Finding Magick

It begins with finding yourself.

Not the curated self, not the self you show to avoid trouble or judgment—
the raw, jagged self.
The flaws, the wounds, the tragic, the weird, the unlovable parts.

You let them breathe. You let them speak.
You let the world see them.
Not with shame, but with surrender.
A confession. A ritual.

When life grabs you by the throat,
when a sword presses cold against your chest,
threatening to cleave your heart in two…
that’s when truth is forged.

I was asked questions.
The answers didn’t bend.
They didn’t change.
Truth doesn’t flinch.
It survives.
It stands.

The blade didn’t scare me.
I’d meet it willingly,
if that was what it took to preserve my essence.
To keep the marrow of myself intact.

I surrendered everything.
Laid down my life.
Because when death is near,
truth is the only thing you can hold.
And in surrender, I was freed.

On the other side: a dawn like fire.
Every fragment of me, sharpened.
Every fracture, fused.
Strength born from trial, solidified by ordeal.

I walk in daylight now,
bearing my wounds as banners,
showing my truths like spells.
Magic is found here—
in the marrow, in the blood,
in the resonance of your core with the world,
a one-in-a-billion alignment.

Most never find it.
They lock their truths away,
hide themselves in safe boxes only they know the combination to.
Their magic never calls them.

They choose the illusion of perfection,
of unscathed skin, of blending in,
of punching the clock until the soul corrodes.

To live that way is a thousand tiny deaths.
I had to die once,
to live fully.
To find my magic.
To stand in the fire and see that life itself is magic.