Soul Sacrifice on the Altar of Silence

The truth isn’t killing you—
It’s the altar of silence you’ve sacrificed yourself upon.

You convinced yourself that self-erasure was holy.
That being chosen was worth being silent.

But martyrdom is not mysticism.
And betraying your truth is not sacred.

You’ve confused palatability with power.
Silence with virtue.
Obedience with spiritual depth.

It’s not humility—it’s survival posing as devotion.

The Persona You Built

You crafted a persona to survive.
Polished. Palatable. Sacred-seeming.
A high priestess of performance.

You became what they needed you to be—
The good daughter. The peacemaker. The wise one. The mystic.
You wore their projections like robes, until you forgot what your own voice sounded like.

But masks are heavy.
And eventually, even the most beautiful altar becomes a tomb.

The Control You Mistook for Strength

You call it self-control.
Let’s name it: ritualized suppression.

A holy-looking manipulation to control how others see you.
To control how safe you feel.
To control whether you are left or loved.

You weren’t lying.
You were surviving.
But now you’re not living.

The Cost of Silence

Truth doesn’t destroy.
Silence does.

Silence is the altar where countless women have laid their voices down.
We were taught it was sacred.
But it was sacrifice.
And no one ever came to resurrect us.

The Inheritance We Carry

This isn’t just personal.
It’s ancestral.

You carry the code of the priestess turned to martyr.
The witch burned for being too clear, too loud, too much.
The mothers who bit their tongues. The grandmothers who swallowed their rage.
Silence passed down like heirlooms.

But your blood knows the difference between obedience and reverence.
And your throat?
It was made for spellwork—not silence.

The Initiation of Shadow Work

Shadow work is an initiation.
It’s the unbinding of false holiness.
The deconstruction of the self you built to be acceptable.

It’s rage turned inward now clawing its way out.
It’s confronting the fact that your perfection was just pain in a prettier outfit.
It’s telling the truth even when your voice shakes—especially then.

It’s not about light.
It’s about liberation.

It’s not about being healed.
It’s about being honest.

The Resurrection

Say the thing.
Not for applause.
Not for Instagram.
Not for the sly jab.
Not for the illusion of empowerment.

Say it because you’re done dying on altars that don’t serve your becoming.

Say it because your truth is not a threat—
it’s a resurrection.

With depth + devotion,
Jacquelyn

Postscript: This piece is an ode to Uranus in Gemini—where truth becomes revolution, and language becomes rebellion.

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