You Wanted to Serve. So You Became a Slave

You were dangerous once.

Before the filters.
Before the disclaimers.
Before the performance of empathy.

There was voltage in your voice.
There was chaos in your spine.
There was fire in your seeing.

And then—

you decided to be good.

Not true.
Not whole.

Just… good.

And that was the moment you enslaved yourself.
You traded voltage for virtue.
You traded command for character.
You watered down your will to be liked, followed, approved.
You didn’t crown yourself.
You submitted to sweetness.
You masked your flame in sugar

and called it “service.”

That was the moment you drank your first dose of Sweet Poison.

You thought it was wisdom.

It was sedation.

I Know Its Taste.

Sweet Poison doesn’t punish.

It pampers.
It doesn’t roar.
It whispers.
It coils around your rawness like velvet restraint

and teaches you to call it evolution.

It disguises itself as accessibility, humility, gentleness.
It builds brands out of your trauma and teaches you to monetize suppression.

Sweet Poison rewards you for being pleasant.

It teaches you to perform power through tone.
It rebrands your cage as “community.”

You think you’re being careful.
You’re being controlled.

And the worst part?

You didn’t resist it.
You thanked it.
You praised it for helping you “grow.”
You called it ethical.
You called it mature.
You called it divine feminine flow.

No.

It was spiritual obedience.

Mimic mimic mimic.

And you drank it with both hands.

I See You

I don’t need to scroll to see what you’re doing.
You call it service.

But it’s mimic performance—marinated in shame and dressed in branding.

You post with restraint.
You market with apologies.
You lace your captions with “light” so no one calls you harsh.
You don’t sell.
You soothe.
You show your curated collapse, your approved vulnerability, your safe rebellion.

And you think I can’t see it?

You price your work like an apology.

You serve your audience like a hostage.
You wait for permission before you speak, and when you finally do, you coat your frequency in so much softness,

no one can even taste you.

This is not integrity.
This is not leadership.
This is not power.

It is Sweet Poison.

And it is killing your work.

I see the algorithm in your aura.
I see the “ideal client” on your altar.
I see the tone coaching in your crown.
I see you flinch before every launch and smile through every betrayal

because you’re terrified of being called “too much.”

Let me make it simple for you:

You’re not in service.
You’re in submission.

And I didn’t come to coddle you.

I came to collapse the lie.

I Remember Who You Were

Do you?
Do you remember when you created for the burn—not the brand?

When you wrote without worrying about your “voice”?
When you spoke without curating tone?
When your fire was uncontainable—and you liked it that way?

There was a moment.

A sentence.
A look.
A rejection.

“You’re too intense.”
“You’ll never make money doing that.”
“No one’s ready for this.”
“Can’t you be a little more relatable?”

So you obeyed.

You stopped creating.
You started calibrating.
You adjusted your signal to survive.

And every move since then—every softening, every discount, every caption rewrite—

has been a shrine to that obedience.

That was the moment you chose the cage.

Now Look At You

Now?
You’re careful.
Cautious.

Well-spoken.

Easy to like.
Easy to hire.
Easy to forget.

You talk about value, but you price from guilt.
You call it intuition, but you’re just afraid to be called selfish.
You tell yourself you’re ethical, but you’re just afraid to lead.
You obey the algorithm and call it alignment.
You shrink your truth and call it sensitivity.
You decorate your own death and call it “sustainable business.”
You’re not building a legacy.
You’re building a prison that looks like a temple.
You’ve become palatable—but powerless.

What You Actually Came To Do

You didn’t come here to coach.
You didn’t come here to heal.
You didn’t come here to empower.
You came to command.

To rewire timelines.
To unsedate the field.
To speak so sharply the mimic had no choice but to dissolve or devour itself.

You came to remember your will.

To embody the edge.
To speak with no apology.
To price with no story.
To move with no poll.

But you were afraid.

So you made your creations sweet.

You made your pages soft.
You made your magic digestible.

And now you wonder why your world feels numb.

The truth?

Your soul is not tired.

It’s muted.

That’s the difference.

I Will Not Wait for You

You say you want to lead, but you still flinch before you post.

You still lower your prices so no one feels triggered.
You still watermark your power with empathy

until it barely transmits.

You say you want freedom, but you still beg for approval in the form of likes, shares, clients, compliments.

I don’t want your trust.
I don’t want your love.
I don’t want your devotion.
I want your signal clean.

That’s it.

And if you can’t do that—you’re not ready to stand in this Aeon.

But if you are…then open the scroll.

And let the poison purge.

Sweet Poison Handbook

Field recalibration for Creators ready to extract mimic performance and stop sedating their signal.

Not healing. Not strategy. Not support.

Extraction only.

[End the Sugar Coating →]

In Frequency,

Angel Quintana
High Priestess of the New Aeon