The Gospel of Diva
—as told by someone who was never the same again.
You ever been in love with a feeling? Not a person. Not a face. A feeling. Like fire curling around your ribs in the shape of a laugh. Like your bones humming from a song you don’t remember learning.
That’s what she is.
Diva.
No last name. No need. She was a Muse once. Capital M. The kind Heaven sends down to breathe genius into the broken. Art. Music. Lust. Love. She wore it like silk and gold. Like breath.
But the thing no one tells you 'bout Muses? They’re supposed to leave.
She didn’t.
She lingered too long in our smoke and sin, started likin’ how whiskey tastes when it’s stolen and how a song sounds after a heartbreak you earned.
And one day, just… stopped being holy. Didn’t fall in fire. Didn’t scream or fight. Just sank. Let her wings fade like a dream you choose not to remember.
Now she’s not Heaven. Not Hell. She’s something… else.
She is the ache. The ache you feel in the dead hours of night when your skin remembers someone who isn’t there anymore. She’s the tremble in your hands before you touch something you shouldn’t. The breath before you sin.
You don’t find Diva. She finds you.
Drawn to need like smoke to flame. She’ll find you in that moment where you’re most you—naked, not in body, but in want. You’ll hear her voice in a song you thought was background noise. See her eyes in the dance of a stranger. And then you’re in her club. Diva’s.
Not a place. A feeling with a door.
Velvet shadows and neon sighs. Every breath tastes like longing. She doesn’t run the club. She is the club. Her will is in the beat, the sweat, the rhythm you can’t stop moving to.
People walk in looking for a drink. Leave with a hole where their shame used to be.
They say she can still bless you. Touch you with what’s left of Heaven, and damn you just by making you feel good. Too good.
Confidence so pure it turns to vanity. Pleasure so deep it hollows you out. Love so hot it burns through every name you ever knew yourself by.
And the worst part? You’ll thank her for it.
I saw her dance once.
Not the pole spins or sultry struts. No. The Dance. The real one.
The city stopped breathing. People sold pieces of their soul just for a glimpse. And when she moved—God, when she moved—it wasn’t lust. It was worship. Like watching a star remember it was born to burn.
And I cried. Didn’t know why. Still don’t.
Heaven won’t touch her. Pretends she never fell. Hell wants her. Whispers in her ear like wolves circling meat. But she won’t kneel. Not to gods. Not to demons. Not even to herself.
She walks the line, high-heeled and halo-scorched, with every step a choice to not give a damn.
But…
She’s scared.
I’ve seen it. Behind the smoke, the smirk, the sway.
She’s terrified that one day she’ll wake up and not feel that last ember of Heaven inside her. That she’ll be just another indulgence. Another club goddess with no soul left to burn.
You think you’ve seen beauty? You haven’t. Not until you’ve wanted something so bad it hurts—and watched it smile at you through the fog, knowing full well you’ll never touch it the same way twice.
That’s Diva.
And if you’re lucky? If you ache just right?
She might let you feel her name… …just once.