“To the Mirror Maid (aka Taylor Swift)
who weaves pop spells from other witches’ altars,
Let it be known:

You sip from the chalice of the Creatrix
but choke on the taste of originality.
You dressed up mimicry in glitter
and called it evolution.
You wear heartbreaks that weren’t yours,
sample pain like outfits,
and sell it back as gospel.

You are not a phoenix—
you’re an echo in couture,
a copy-paste priestess with a brand deal.
Even your reinventions have a ghostwriter.

May your muse return to her rightful throne.
May your pen run dry for a fortnight.
May every mirror you seek validation in
crack from the weight of borrowed magic.

Signed,
One who remembers the source.”**