𝓣𝓗𝓔 𝓡𝓔𝓢𝓤𝓡𝓡𝓔𝓒𝓣𝓘𝓞𝓝
they didn’t just call her 'too much'. they dissected her. poeticized her pain and sold it back to her in pretty frames. they said she was too raw, too selfish, too sensual, too her. they fed on her vulnerability and called it inspiration. erased her name and called it collaboration. they applauded her wounds and then told her not to bleed too loud.
they took her softness and stretched it over a crucifix. they stole her voice and autotuned the grief out of it. they lit candles in her name while setting her on fire. and when she screamed? they called it performance. when she wept? they called it art.
they clipped her lyrics out of context like sacrilegious soundbites. they blurred the line between sacred and scandalous—and then blamed her for crossing it.
they claimed offense, but what they really felt was fear. fear of a woman who sang like confession and refused to dilute herself for the comfort of strangers. but the second she said “this isn’t yours anymore,” they excommunicated her.
called her unstable. dramatic. ungrateful. said “we love women” but only meant the kind who die quietly.
but belladonna rossetti didn’t die. she transfigured. and tonight? they’re all here to watch her final act.
the theater is dark. the audience murmurs—hungry, haunted, pretending they aren’t the ones who cast the first stone. the curtain doesn’t rise. it parts, trembling like it's peeling back the veil between the sacred and the damned.
and there she is.
not standing. suspended.
crucified in black lace and invisible fixtures, arms outstretchedlike holy wounds. rosaries coil around her wrists like shackles, a fashion exorcism. her makeup? divine. her tears? blood red, precise—designer stigmata, wept one by one, as if each drop had to be earned.
the audience gasps. then she sings.
and sweet lucifer’s eyeliner—she doesn’t just sing. she summons. her voice? a revelation. a banshee’s prayer soaked in betrayal and rebirth. she sings for every girl who was told to be smaller. for every muse who became a martyr. every storm that learned to hold a microphone.
behind her? a shattered halo made of broken mirrors—framed like a crown of jagged truth, reflecting back every distorted story they told about her. her lyrics? poetry with a blade. sermons in stilettos. she doesn’t name names—she prophesies in riddles they’ll never forget.
and that tremble in her voice? it’s not weakness. it’s wrath restrained. grief weaponized. a woman choosing to feel in a world that told her to shut up and smile.
the climax hits like an exorcism. thunder cracks. light explodes. her final note—a scream and a sacrament. she drops from the cross. not broken. not bruised. she lands in heels like a divine punishment, as if resurrection was just her entrance cue.
center stage, she stands. arms no longer outstretched—but crossed, calm, deadly. a queen. a relic. a warning.
silence.
not because the crowd has nothing to say... but because they know.
and with eyes rimmed in smoke and retribution, she delivers her gospel:
"you wanted me silent. sweet. sanctified. but i am none of those things. i am the goddamn altar you tried to burn me on. now kneel."
blackout.
no curtain call. no encore. just the echo of everyone who wronged her, finally choking on their guilt.