She’s Alone, But Not Lonely.
She’s alone, but she’s no longer hazy from the gas. She’s alone, but nowhere near lonely — focused now, lit by her own fumes, striking her own fire.
And still, there’s a silhouette in a hoodie. You’ve always been here. Not left. Not right. Just here. In the shadows. You only ever take the hood off when necessary.
Between credentials, cross‑roads, and lines — walking them makes it easy to get caught up in A.
Just a couple months ago, I was crying over crowns, crowds, and will‑you‑always‑be’s. Heads up: “always” is never in the policy. “Always” is a trick — a limbo word that makes you rewrite your own guidelines to fit someone else’s promise of forever.
Will you always be a crown lost in the crowd? Forgotten like the headlights I used to walk toward?
Between being jesus’d and dancing with demons, I learned this: even the silhouettes have stories, and even the glitter knows how to survive the dark.
There is a level of peace in being a neon‑hearted bitch. Credentialed. Licensed. Notarized. Untouchable. Healing my head while diagnosing my own reality. No left turns, right turns, your turns, or dead ends — just a foggy trail along a canal that always leads to an orchard, and eventually back to the canal again.
Do you ever think about simple fairy tales and wonder why they’re called fairy tales at all?
Little Red — why were you alone in the woods? Because the wolves were always in the house. In the maze of nature. Shadow‑figures of neon pastels, side effects of the micros I dose myself.
Healing your head takes a treatment plan that isn’t a plan at all. Once you realize you’ve been living in a den of vipers, you feel like a mouse for a moment.
Leave the den. Spend nights chasing an adrenaline rush. You realize you were never the mouse. Or Eve. You were always the snake in the grass.
The predator has always been the wolf. I don’t do packs.
A clinician in shadow‑work and satin, while faith stays coherent in God. Tell Jesus about them both.
The outfit is still the signature of A — lipstick, bows, a crown, a credential. Not alone. Just Amber McDaniel. And no one will ever truly know her. I just found her. I'm selfish with her.
Little lamb. Little Red. Eve. A.
I am the fairy tale.
The script‑writer.
The clinician.
The therapist.
The doctor.
And the only human who knows who Amber McDaniel is.
It took me years to get here.
Little Red — where are you running in such a hurry?
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