Snake Woman

Snake Woman Excerpt: “The Stranger in the Mirror”

She didn’t arrive with a scream.
She arrived with silence so thick it split the air.

When the Snake Woman was born, they didn’t know her name.
Not even the wind dared to whisper it.

As a child, she was told to “be good,” but her bones knew better.
She was sent—not born—and sent ones don’t obey.
They crack illusions.
They wake sleepers.
They don’t come to play nice.

In the middle of the night, when the stars blinked like ancient eyes, she saw her reflection shimmer—
skin shedding, soul burning, truth hissing from her lips like prophecy.
No one had warned her:
To awaken is to die while living.
To remember is to be exiled from comfort.

She had no lineage, no myth to cradle her.
So she became the myth.
A motherless daughter of the Great Serpent.
A woman made of endings.

Now, they call her dangerous.
But they’ve forgotten—danger is what births worlds.  She wasn’t born to be soft spoken or sweet to the ear. She came as friction. Fire. A soul seeded in the old codes – ones that cracked illusions open like snake skin ready to shed. People called her dangerous, too much, or simply didn’t call her at all. But it wasn’t personal. Her presence stirred things. Stirred truth. Stirred pain. Stirred memory. And not everyone wants to remember.

The Great Woman Creator didn’t send her to be adored. She was sent to challenge. To provoke healing. To break the curse of smallness. Her love was jagged, like glass turned to light. Her path? Lonely. Sacred. Free.

Peace walked beside her – not the peace of silence, but the peace of knowing that she was in service. That she was the hand of awakening. That her solitude was her protection, not punishment. She had made her choice long ago: to be the storm that clears the air, not the breeze that soothes it. And so, she walked on. Snake Woman. Not here to be liked. Here to be real. 

She was not forged in comfort, but in confrontation. Her spirit bore the mark of a soul sent not to please, but to provoke. Her eyes saw too much. Her silence spoke too loudly. Where she went, truths unravelled. People mistook her for a destroyer. But she was a revealer. A mirror. A living edge where illusion went to die.

"They don't like a woman who sees through things," she said, pulling the kettle off the fire with a hand that had seen birth and burial. "They especially don't like her if she says what she sees. But I never came here to be liked. I came to rattle the dead wood from people's minds. And I did it the only way I knew how-by living truth with no sugar on top."

They said she came from nowhere.
But that wasn’t true.
She came from the place before the first lie.
The place beneath names.
The silence under the word God.
A slit in the veil, a portal stitched from breath, grief, and bone.

She was not born to be understood.
She was born to dismantle the systems that lived inside people’s minds pretending to be them.
She watched with eyes that remembered other worlds.
Worlds where the snake wasn’t feared, but revered.
Where shedding wasn’t shameful, it was sacred.
Where women bled into the earth and the earth answered back with storms and song.

But here—on this tight-skinned planet—everything was upside down.
Here, the snake was evil.
Here, the woman was warned.
Here, truth was trimmed down into socially acceptable lies.
And she? She was never going to fit.

She tried once.
Tried smiling at all the right places, saying “thank you” when she meant “fuck off,”
but her mouth tasted like blood every time she bit her tongue.

The Snake Woman woke slowly.
Not all at once.
Like scales falling one by one from the eyes of her soul.

The first time, she dreamt of fire pouring from her belly.
The second, she felt her spine vibrate like a thousand serpents dancing.
By the third, she stopped dreaming.
She was the dream now.
Other people’s.
And her own.

She walked with a kind of madness that made sane people nervous.
She spoke truths that shook foundations.
She touched others and they remembered things they didn’t know they’d forgotten.

Some called her cursed.
Some called her divine.
It didn’t matter.
She wasn’t here for names.
She was here for impact.

She walked into temples that were collapsing and didn’t try to save them.
She let them fall.
She watched the dust rise like prayer.
She wept.
And then she laughed.
Because the soul remembers.
And sometimes remembering means breaking.

She did not seek war.
But she came with weapons.
Truth was one.
Silence was another.
Love—the kind that sears through falsehood—was her sharpest blade.

They wanted her to be sweet.
She was salt.
They wanted her soft.
She was storm.
They wanted her still.
She was Becoming.

And when they tried to burn her,
she didn’t scream.
She slithered out of their grip, left her skin in their fire,
and walked away smoke-slick and reborn.