The Devil & The High Priestess

The Devil leans in,
slick smile, smoke in his teeth,
says “That feeling in your gut? That’s me.”
And I believe him.
Because fear is louder than faith,
and I have spent years mistaking volume for truth.

He wraps his lithe fingers around my ribs,
plays them
like a cage
like a warning siren
like an alarm that never shuts up.
Says, “Run.”
Says, “Hide.”
Says, “Don’t you dare trust yourself.”

And I almost listen -
because my heart is a trembling thing,
because my hands are shaking maps
that don’t know north from nervous,
because every time I have been wrong
feels like proof that I will be again.

But then -
The High Priestess.

She doesn’t shout.
Doesn’t argue.
Doesn’t fight fear with fear.

She just looks at me,
like she knows me,
like she’s always known me.
And she doesn’t beg me to listen -
because she knows I already am.

I ask her, “What if I get it wrong?”
She says, “What if you don’t?”
I ask her, “What if this is anxiety?”
She says, “What if it’s not?”

And suddenly, the air feels different -
like maybe the weight in my chest
isn’t chains
isn’t a noose
isn’t a monster in my lungs.

Maybe it’s a compass.
Maye it’s a key.
Maybe it’s me.

The Devil rolls his eyes,
leans back into his throne of second guesses,
says, “Suit yourself.”
And I do.

Because the Priestess never yells -
never pushes,
never demands -
she just waits.
Because she knows,
eventually,
I’ll remember how to trust myself.

- Arin Breagh