The Wrong Way

September 20, 2025
By Roy Dawson Earth Angel Master Magical healer


Somebody out here isn't who they say they are.

They smile in my face, wear my name on their lips like lipstick, but they don’t know who they are. They look in mirrors and see my face. They try to walk like me, talk like me. They’ve borrowed my voice and stitched it onto a throat that trembles when it speaks.

And it was the wrong move. Point blank. Bottom line.

There’s a sickness to it. Not the kind that runs fever and shakes the body, but the kind that rots the soul. Personality disorder. Maybe madness. Maybe just a bad heart.

They tried to hurt me. They thought if they stole my name and wrapped it around themselves like a coat, no one would notice. But they were wrong.

Now the world is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that comes before a gunfight. The kind of quiet where a ghost might whisper.

And there is a ghost.

Somebody took something that wasn’t theirs. Maybe a life. Maybe a name. Maybe both. And the ghost is hunting. Not the kind of ghost that floats, but the kind that stares from the end of the hallway with a loaded question and a loaded gun. Spirit says it knows who did it. Spirit says justice comes like winter — cold, late, but it always comes.

They used copyright. Maybe for a house. Maybe for a business. Maybe just to live a lie better than their truth. That’s the thing about liars — they lie so long they forget the sound of their own voice. They become shadows of shadows.

Now people whisper. Neighbors talk in half-sentences and broken prayers. Names are mentioned in bathrooms, not in daylight. Some of those names. Could be anyone. Could be everyone. Even family. Especially family.

Somebody cracked the code. Maybe me. Maybe not. Doesn’t matter now. What matters is someone knows.

And someone’s scared.

There’s talk of lawsuits. Talk of the feds. Someone hacked a system somewhere. Someone used my birthdate like it was theirs. Somebody’s getting booked. Two felonies, maybe more. Might take months. Might take years. But it’s coming.

They thought it wouldn’t be traced. They were wrong. They always are.

Now the wind shifts. December creeps like a slow bullet. Karma’s cold. And it doesn’t miss.

Spirit says I'm surrounded by good. Maybe not loud good. But the kind check here that sits with me in silence and watches the storm roll in.

The ones who tried to be me — they’ll be seen. The fraud, the theft, the lies — all of it. I don’t need to shout. I don’t need to run. Just sit. Stay still. The truth doesn’t rush.

The wolves are out. But I'm not alone.

Not anymore.