A Nest of Thorns: On Love, Sickness, and Satanic Clarity
I swallowed her like medicine. Bitter, numbing, convincing. For a moment, it felt like healing. That’s how it always begins—with the illusion of relief.
We don’t fall for people. We fall for the idea of feeling better. That warm buzz of being chosen, touched, noticed. It makes the sickness inside go quiet, even if just for a night. So we take the pill. Again. And again.
We call it love. But it’s a slow disease.
She was gentle, in the way arsenic is gentle. No explosions. No screams. Just small, daily withdrawals from my sense of self. A suggestion here. A silence there. I became pliable—easier to live with, easier to mold. I told myself that was compromise. Growth, even.
But I was wearing her shape like borrowed skin. And every kiss cut deeper than the last.
That’s the trick: we mold our lovers into dreams. We ignore the smell of rot because the lighting is romantic. We tell ourselves it’s deep just because it hurts. The wounds become familiar, then comforting. That’s not love. That’s trauma with a good soundtrack.
Satanism doesn’t coddle this.
The Satanist isn’t afraid to name the poison. The Satanist doesn’t write sonnets about leeches. We look at what feeds off us and say, “You only get one god here—and it’s me.”
LaVey once wrote: “Love is one of the most intense feelings felt by man; another is hate. So the Satanist is honest about both.” That hit me like cold water. Satanism demands honesty. Brutal, surgical honesty. I had confused surrender for devotion. I had confused obsession for passion. I had mistaken bleeding for bonding.
I thought my openness made me real. It didn’t. It made me hollow.
You infect me gently, break me down.
That line used to make me ache. Now it makes me angry. Not at her. At me. At the part of me that thought suffering made something sacred. That letting someone in meant letting myself disappear.
Now I crave less—and I feel more. I guard my flesh. I guard my mind. And I no longer worship at the altar of "almost love."
Satanism gave me back my edges. My clarity. My will. And from that place of defiance, I finally burned the nest she built inside my chest.
The ashes look good on me.