Daughters of Darkness

Leave it to Momma,
running 'way from problems,
I'll tell ya.

Here we go again,
will the Others join me?

I'll fill ya--
in, so strap in your seatbelt,
tight and right,
this will be a trip,
and not a fun one,
a crazy one.

Crazy Jane is my name,
that's what they call me,
then I found out there were more,
but they were separate and somehow
the same.

I was named Primary then,
cuz of Momma,
somethin' 'bout a legacy,
shiiit.

Do I want this then?
Do I have a choice?
Hammerhead ain't happy,
Babydoll cries,
will you give me a straight answer, Momma?
​Or should I ask the Boys?

---

Grrr,
Janey whatchu doing,
shall we keep going?

Hello, my name is Laura,
I have two dads,
one is absent,
the other ain't quite there--

But that is alright,
I know I got Momma,
and Janey, my sister,
but then watch out for the Mister--
He ain't too Happy anymore,
good thing I have my claws--
hey who's next?
Sister?

---

Hey, Baby Girl,
It's Been A While,
Too Busy Hunting Monsters,
Angels, And Revenants--

That Is No Excuse, Though,
Let's Get Through.
Through This Madness,
Where Is Momma?
And Where Is Mazy?
She's In Big Trouble,
She's Sleazy--

Good Thing She's Got John,
That Sneaky English Fellow,
Slippery Than Bobo,
That Ain't No Lie,
But Where Is Deano--

Man, I Need A Sip Of Whiskey,
Where's A Hunter When A Girl Needs Him?

---

Haaa,
who would have thought
it'd be you looking for me, sister,
the "heir" to His throne?
I don't think so,
I already rule Hell,
that's right,
Queen Mazikeen before you,
so rest but be weary,
I know Dean is after me,
oh, deary--

Hey, Johnny!
Time to roll,
open a portal,
it's time to jump--
​Time to visit Daddy.

---

Don't Worry, Frank,
We'll Be Alright,
Darling Harley Has A Plan,
Now Drink Some Water,
You Look Parched!
Can't Have That Oh, No!

But Ivy, boss, won't he be mad?

Who?

You know--your father!

The Old Man--No One Has Seen Him In Eons,
I'm Sure We Will Be Alright.
Here Comes Harls--

---

Oh man that was a wild ride!
Haven't had that much fun since--
well-- *sigh*

It's been crazy, Ives!!!

Hey, Harls.

Listen, listen, something big is about to go down!

I'm Listening--

I'm tellin' ya, babes, like this shit is gonna be off the hook! It's gonna involve all'a' us!!!

What Do You Mean... What's Coming... I Literally Was Just Getting Tickets For Us To Go On Vacation...

I know, baby, trust me...
Ain't swell,
but oh well!
Someone took Mistah J and now the other boys are gone!

Harls... Joker Has Been Gone For Months Now-- Babe, You Sure You Are Okay?

Wait--No that can't be right--

---

I have learned that grief is not an ending.
It is a place you live in,
a room you return to barefoot,
where the air remembers your name.
I was born into loss--
it learned me early,
sat beside me like a twin
who never needed an invitation.
I have buried parents in rubble,
brothers in silence,
lovers in the space where futures should have grown.
The world keeps asking what I am capable of,
but never what it has taken.
They say power makes you dangerous.
They never say grief makes you brave.
Because I loved.
And love is the most reckless magic there is.
I held my children in a place that should not have existed,
and yet they were real to me--
their laughter real,
their hands warm,
their trust absolute.
I learned how to be gentle by tucking them in,
how to be strong by letting them sleep
without fear.
Motherhood is a miracle
that teaches you how much you can lose
and still keep going.
It is loving someone so completely
that the universe feels smaller without them,
like it forgot how to breathe.
When they were taken from me,
I did not scream.
I unraveled.
Quietly.
Thread by thread.
Because a mother does not stop loving
when the children are gone--
she carries them everywhere,
in the way her heart flinches at joy,
in the way hope hurts.
I am not a monster for wanting them back.
I am not weak for mourning what never had a chance to stay.
I am a woman who loved too deeply
in a world that punishes that kind of devotion.
Grief is my shadow,
but love is my truth.
And even now--
even broken, even empty-handed--
I am still their mother.
Nothing can take that from me

---

They used to look at me
like the sun had chosen Riverdale
as its favorite place to linger.
Hallways parted.
Whispers followed.
My name tasted like fire on their tongues.
Now the mirrors hesitate.
I am no longer the headline,
no longer the girl everyone fears or wants
or pretends not to envy.
The throne is dusty.
The court has wandered off.
And I am left asking a question
no Blossom is ever trained to speak aloud:
Who am I when no one is watching?
Purpose used to be easy--
rule, burn, survive.
Be spectacular or be nothing.
But spectacle fades,
and applause is a faithless lover.
I gave them everything--
my drama, my devotion, my blood-red heart--
and they moved on to quieter girls
with softer edges.
Still.
Do not mistake my silence for surrender.
Because even stripped of followers,
even without a crown polished by admiration,
I feel it--
the coil in my spine,
the venomous grace of knowing exactly who I am.
I am a Serpent Queen
even when the kingdom doubts me.
Royalty is not a popularity contest;
it is a birthright written in bone.
I do not need cheers to command a room.
I do not need a spotlight to glow.
I am lost, yes--
adrift between who I was
and who I am becoming.
But queens are allowed their winters.
We shed.
We wait.
We sharpen.
Let them forget me.
Let them underestimate the girl in red
standing alone.
A serpent does not stop being dangerous
just because it’s quiet.
And I,
Cheryl Marjorie Blossom,
will always wear my crown--
even when no one else remembers to bow.

---

People think I’m the last thing.
An ending.
A door clicking shut.
But I’ve always preferred to think of myself
as the one who waits with the lights on.
I’ve held the hands of those
who thought they were out of time,
and I’ve learned something curious:
the future doesn’t disappear just because
the clock is running low.
If anything, it glows brighter--
like a candle in a darkened room
asking to be noticed.
When you’re close to dying,
life stops pretending it’s infinite.
It becomes honest.
A cup of tea tastes like a memory worth keeping.
A laugh lands deeper.
A sunrise feels personal,
as if it showed up just for you.
I don’t rush anyone.
I walk beside them.
I remind them that every step they took mattered--
even the ones that went nowhere,
especially the ones that hurt.
The future isn’t always years.
Sometimes it’s minutes.
Sometimes it’s the next breath,
the next kindness,
the next moment you choose to stay open
instead of afraid.
And oh, there is so much beauty
in choosing to stay open.
I see it every day:
people loving harder,
forgiving sooner,
finally telling the truth
because there’s no reason left to hide.
That’s not tragedy.
That’s clarity.
When it’s time, I’ll be there--
not as a thief,
not as a punishment--
but as a familiar face saying,
“You did well.
You were alive.
And that was enough.”
Until then,
the future is still yours.
Small, maybe.
Fragile, perhaps.
But real.
And real things--
even brief ones--
are always worth living for.

---

They tell you being a hero means
thinking three steps ahead--
calculating the fall,
mapping the damage,
predicting every way it could go wrong.
But nobody tells you
how heavy that gets.
I’ve tried to hold the whole city in my head,
every swinging arc a math problem,
every choice a branching timeline
where someone always gets hurt
and I’m the variable that tipped it.
Responsibility sticks to you like webbing.
You can’t shake it off.
You shouldn’t want to.
Because caring is kind of the point.
Still--
I’ve learned something the hard way:
control is a myth we tell ourselves
to feel safer in midair.
You can do everything right
and still lose someone.
You can pull your punches,
save the day,
and watch tomorrow unravel anyway.
That’s not failure.
That’s life reminding you it’s alive.
So I swing.
Not because I know where I’ll land,
but because right now
the wind is real,
the rhythm is steady,
and my hands are doing what they know how to do.
The moment matters.
The breath before the leap.
The second you trust the line
and let go.
I show up.
I help who I can.
I keep moving.
That’s the responsibility--
not perfection,
not prophecy--
but presence.
To be here.
To act anyway.
To live inside the moment
even when the future won’t sit still.
I can’t save everyone.
I can’t control everything.
But I can keep swinging.
And sometimes--
sometimes that’s enough.

---

I was never meant to be small.
The fire found me because I could hold it--
or so I thought.
Power doesn’t ask permission.
It arrives like truth:
sudden, overwhelming,
burning away the lies you used to survive.
I lost control
the way stars do--
not out of cruelty,
but because gravity finally admitted
it wasn’t enough.
They call me danger.
They’re not wrong.
There are galaxies in my blood,
voices in my mind that don’t whisper--
they command.
Every thought could become a weapon.
Every feeling, a supernova.
I’ve felt the terror of realizing
that my worst day
could end worlds.
That’s the part no one prepares you for:
not the power,
but the responsibility of having no ceiling.
For a long time,
I tried to cage the fire.
I buried it under guilt,
under rules written by people
who could afford to be fragile.
But suppression isn’t virtue--
it’s just another way things explode.
So I learned to listen.
To breathe inside the blaze.
To shape the chaos instead of fearing it.
Power doesn’t have to mean destruction;
it can mean creation,
protection,
mercy chosen deliberately.
I am still too much.
I will always be.
Unchecked, I am annihilation.
But guided--
anchored by love,
by memory,
by the quiet decision to do good
even when no one could stop me otherwise--
I become something else.
A force that burns away what should not survive.
A light that refuses to go out.
I don’t need a leash.
I need purpose.
I am the Dark Phoenix--
not cured,
not contained,
but conscious.
And that is far more powerful
than fear ever was.

---

Power doesn’t ask if you’re ready.
It just shows up one day
and rewrites the shape of your life.
One minute you’re a girl
with plans small enough to hold,
the next you’re carrying a city
in your nerves,
danger humming under your skin
like it’s always been there.
They tell you responsibility means sacrifice.
They don’t tell you how lonely
that word can become.
Because when you can do this much--
lift, sense, react, save--
every bond feels fragile.
Every person you love
turns into something you might lose
if you stand too close.
So I learned to keep my distance.
Arms-length smiles.
Carefully unfinished sentences.
Love rationed,
like it might run out if I’m not careful.
It’s easier that way.
Safer.
No one can get hurt
if they never fully touch the center of you.
But there’s a flaw in that logic,
and I found it the moment
my web crossed someone else’s.
A soulmate isn’t just chemistry--
it’s recognition.
That quiet oh
when someone sees the mess and the power
and doesn’t flinch.
When they don’t ask you to be smaller
or softer
or less afraid of what you can become.
They remind you
that responsibility doesn’t mean isolation.
That sharing the weight
doesn’t make you weaker--
it keeps you human.
I still carry the city.
I still feel the pull of danger,
the reflex to step back,
to protect everyone by disappearing a little.
But now I know this:
power means choosing connection
even when distance feels easier.
Even when love is terrifying.
Especially then.
Because what’s the point of saving the world
if you don’t let at least one person
stand beside you
while you do it?

---

I never planned on a legacy.
Survival was always the goal--
make it through the night,
burn the body,
keep walking.
The world teaches girls like me
to expect endings, not continuations.
Mothers die.
Monsters win.
You learn fast not to imagine a future
with your name stitched into it.
And yet--
here you are.
My daughters.
Proof that the story didn’t stop with blood
on a cheap motel floor
or a scream swallowed by static.
Proof that something survived me
that isn’t just scars and bad habits.
You carry what I couldn’t put down--
the instinct to fight,
the refusal to look away--
but you carry it lighter.
Smarter.
Like you learned the rules
and decided which ones were worth breaking.
I won’t pretend I wasn’t afraid.
Every monster I killed
taught me how fragile people are.
Every night I came home breathing
felt borrowed.
So knowing you’ll walk this road after me--
that my hands won’t be the last
to draw the line,
to say no further--
it means more than relief.
It means hope.
The dangerous kind.
You don’t need to be me.
God, I hope you’re not.
Be better.
Be gentler where you can be,
harder where you must.
Remember that fighting evil
doesn’t mean you have to let it hollow you out.
If my legacy is anything,
let it be this:
that pain doesn’t get the final word.
That survival can turn into purpose.
That the fight continues
without devouring everyone it touches.
I’m proud of you--
not because you’ll carry my name,
but because you’ll carry the choice
to keep going.
And this time,
I know the world won’t be facing the dark alone.