We got sold a scam: that “holy” means clean, perfect, untouched.
That holiness is about bleaching yourself until nothing messy, human, or inconvenient leaks through.
That purity is the proof of worth.
Bullshit.
Holiness isn’t about being untouched. It’s about being untouchable.
It’s not scrubbing yourself raw until you fit the dress code — it’s walking into the room already carrying fire, and daring anyone to try to snuff it out.
Purity is fragile. It shatters the moment real life puts dirt under your fingernails.
Power doesn’t break. It bends the world around it.
The lie of purity is how they kept you in line.
Don’t get angry — that’s impure.
Don’t get loud — that’s impure.
Don’t fuck, don’t rage, don’t bleed, don’t cry — impure, impure, impure.
But look closer. The things they called “impure” are the same things that make you dangerous.
Your hunger. Your voice. Your rage. Your grief. Your desire.
That’s not contamination. That’s current. That’s voltage. That’s the raw material of holiness.
Holiness is not about locking yourself in a spotless glass box.
It’s about walking through the mud and knowing you’re still untouchable.
It’s about carrying scars and still radiating something too big, too fierce, too alive to be contained.
Holiness isn’t purity.
It’s power.
And it’s already in you.