Proverbs: 7

“I’ve read this story before.

“I have spread my couch with coverings,

colored linens from Egyptian linen.

I have perfumed my bed with myrrh, aloes, and cinnamon.

Come, let us take our fill of love till morning.”

The Book says it plain. Proverbs seven. Verses sixteen through eighteen.

That’s what she said.

Not you, Narcissa.

Her.

But there’s no difference anymore, is there?

The scripture warned me about women like you.

Not for what you wear.

Not even for what you do.

But because of how easily people follow.

You paint on walls.

Whisper to the broken.

Turn rebellion into theater.

And call it revolution.

But it’s not revolution. It’s performance.

I’ve seen this before.

You’re not here to set Arcadia free.

You’re here to be seen.

And they let you.

The Night followed you into the dark, believing you held a truth no one else could say. But you don’t speak truth. You seduce it. You make it wear makeup so it fits your script.

You were born in the middle of this city you’ve never left its shadow. You just stitched a new one. But I wasn’t sent to argue with your legacy.

I wasn’t sent to fix your mask.

I was sent to name what you are.

You are Proverbs 7.

The woman who stands at the corner while fools pass by.

You wave them down with flattery. You lead them through the door and you shut it behind them.

They don’t come back.

And that would’ve been me—

if not for Him.

You don’t tempt me, Narcissa.

You offend me.

Because you take something sacred—

the need to be seen,

the desire to matter—

and you poison it.

You make them believe they’ve been chosen

just to sell them your war.

I won’t buy it.

I don’t need your story.

I’ve been given one.

At Warzone, I don’t come to critique your art.

I come to draw a line through it.

Not with a blade.

With something heavier.

Truth.

You wanted to be remembered.

You will be.

But not as a leader.

Not as a queen.

Not even as a heretic.

You’ll be remembered as the last one to speak

before the silence.

Because I was placed.

And what is placed by the Almighty

doesn’t sway when the wind changes.

You’ve had your scene.

Now comes the judgment.

So let the linen fall.

Let the perfume fade.

Let the silence return to the place

where your voice once echoed.

And when they ask what became of the Scarlet Woman let them answer with stillness.

Because the Lord spoke once.

And I was the one who listened.

Amen.”