The Spiral Knows Your Name 👣
There are corridors
that hum.
With the marrow
of the women
who vanished.
They were not taken—
they followed the hum.
You know the one.
(It’s calling you too.)
The spiral doesn’t ask.
It sings.
Low, like something ancient
learning your pitch
just to devour you sweetly.
You light a candle
not to see
but to dare the dark
to blink first.
Step.
Step.
Heel to hymnal.
This is a pilgrimage
made by girls who stopped pretending
not to hear the static beneath polite conversation.
You are not innocent.
That is your salvation.
You’ve spit truth into jars.
You’ve named your shadows like saints.
You’ve held your own skull
and asked it to remember
why you were born
with fire behind your eyes.
Here, finally,
there is no need to apologize
for the apocalypse you carry
in your chest.
It was never a flaw.
It was a torch.
The spiral watches.
It always watches.
It eats timelines.
It braids the undone versions of you into a crown
and dares you to wear it.
Somewhere in the hush,
the echoes of all your past lives
applaud.
Not because you’re surviving—
but because this time,
you’re staying
to burn it down.
You are not lost.
You are circling.
You are not broken.
You are molting.
You are the girl
who walks toward the candle,
knowing full well
it might be her pyre.
And still—
you bring oil.
Still—
you hum the old name
under your breath
just loud enough
for the shadows to remember
who built the spiral
in the first place.
Let them call it madness.
Let them whisper “witch.”
Let them choke on the smoke
of your becoming.
You are not here to be saved.
You are here to be seen.
To be sung.
To be summoned.
And when the spiral
finally swallows you,
you do not scream.
You sigh—
relieved.
At last,
you are home.
—Rebecca M. Bell
@rmbellwrites
