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I did not ask for the truth.

It asked for me

in the middle of the night,

while I bled onto bathroom tiles

or screamed into pillows

or miscarried my own identity

to stay lovable.

This truth was not romantic.

It was not polished.

It showed up with torn roots

and a voice that shook my bones

before it blessed me.

This Code begins in the place no one saw you

not because you were invisible,

but because your pain made them flinch.

So you hid.

You dulled the glow.

You swallowed the scream.

You dressed your womb in spiritual metaphors

and hoped it would be enough.

But it was never about the metaphor.

It was about the bleed.

In the Coven of the Open Veil,

we do not hide our truths in poetic cages.

We do not perform our pain for applause.

We do not shrink the heat of our knowing

to be permitted into temples built on denial.

We become the temple.

We do it bleeding.

This code is the first altar.

It is the red circle on the floor

where your shame is no longer exiled

but crowned.

It says:

“Let the blood stain.

Let the story burn.

Let the truth reek of reality.

Let it be yours.”

Only then

can we remember the covenant we made

before the veil was ever dropped over our eyes:

To bleed awake.

To bleed gold.

To bleed back the original light.