“A Snake is a Snake, No Matter the Colour”

“A Snake is a Snake, No Matter the Colour”

By Delahrose

For years, I questioned myself.

Not because I didn’t know the truth—

But because the world around me said: you’re bitter, broken, too much, too soon.

I was always seeing.

The room. The system. The men. The spells.

But seeing early gets you labelled.

Especially if you’re a woman who loves deeply and speaks plainly.

I had a dream recently.

My daughter and I were at a fair.

You know the kind—plastic joy, spinning lights, candy-coated performance.

And beneath the surface—literally under the seating—were snakes.

Hundreds. Knotted, twisted, vibrant and dull.

They were everywhere. Brown, green, orange.

Hidden in plain sight, like hair from Medusa’s scalp, moving, watching.

The more I looked, the more I saw.

My daughter saw them too. Calmly. Clearly.

I told her, “We need to leave.”

And we did.

There was a man in that dream, too.

A barrister I once loved. The one I met during my divorce.

The one who lit up the room, charmed the circle, played the field.

He was never mine—because he was never his.

In the dream, he was friendly. Present.

But when he saw the snakes—he freaked out.

Because until we pointed them out, he couldn’t see them.

And when he finally did, it shattered his composure.

That’s when I knew:

He was never safe.

Not because he was dangerous.

But because he was fragile.

In real life, I remember another moment.

A restaurant man—one of the “charming ones.”

Talked my ear off when we were alone.

Wouldn’t leave my side.

But as soon as the barrister walked in?

He avoided my table.

Wouldn’t even make eye contact.

Because the illusion of charm only works until status enters the room.

And no one wanted to be seen talking to a woman who no longer played the game.

These men—most of them—are only as strong as their trophies.

Take away the title, the terrace house, the connections, and they’re thin wood.

Kindling. Dry. Quick to catch fire when the truth walks in.

I used to think I was unsafe around them.

Now I realise they were never safe around me.

Because I held the mirror.

And I didn’t look away.

It’s taken years to metabolise.

To unravel the gaslighting.

To understand that what they called “bitterness” was just clarity they couldn’t handle.

I see it now.

It doesn’t matter what colour they paint themselves.

A snake is a snake.

No matter how spiritual, poetic, woke, successful, or soft they appear—

If they move in secrecy, entanglement, and projection,

They will try to charm you into forgetting what you know.

But I remember.

And I walk out clean.

(Continues to the frog- in next post)

Delahrose

The Seer Who Sees