Liberation in the Black Flame: How Satanism Set My Queerness Free

I come from a place where church bells ring louder than most folks’ inner truth, and bein’ different—especially queer—was seen as somethin’ to pray away. Grew up with Pentecostal hollerin’ on one side, Methodist guilt on the other, and me stuck right there in the middle, askin’ why I always felt like a damn ghost in my own skin. Took me near half a life to realize I wasn’t broken—I was just born into a story that wasn’t mine.

This piece—Liberation in the Black Flame—ain’t just about religion or rebellion. It’s about what happens when you finally say no more to bein’ small, silent, or ashamed. It’s about how Satanism helped me see my queerness not as a sin, but as sacred. If you’ve ever felt like the beliefs you’ve been carryin’ don’t fit who you are or where you’re goin’… well, sugar, this one’s for you.

1. Growin’ up under the cross
2. Discoverin’ the rebel angel
3. Blazin’ my own path
   1. Spotify Playlist
4. Breakin’ the chain

Growin’ up under the cross

I was raised in a house where Jesus was hangin’ on every wall, and bein’ different was somethin’ folks tried to pray outta you. My mama was Pentecostal—fire, brimstone, speakin’ in tongues—and my daddy leaned Methodist, which meant quieter guilt but no less judgment. Me? I was just a quiet little queer kid tryin’ to make sense of why I felt like a mistake. I read the Bible front to back more than once hopin’ for answers, but all I found was a deep, gnawin’ feelin’ that I didn’t belong.

For a long time, I carried those beliefs like a sack of wet stones—heavy, suffocatin’, and not even mine to begin with. I tried to be good, tried to be what they wanted, tried to straighten myself out in every sense of the word. But no matter how hard I prayed or how much I swallowed down, I couldn’t make myself fit in a mold built for someone else’s salvation. That’s when I started to pull away—not from the idea of spirit or sacredness, but from the lie that I had to suffer to earn love.

Discoverin’ the rebel angel

That’s where Satanism found me. Or maybe, truth be told, it’s where I finally let myself find Satanism. And I ain’t talkin’ about worshippin’ some red devil with horns and a pitchfork. I’m talkin’ about the archetype—the rebel, the questioner, the one who said no to blind obedience and yes to knowledge, pleasure, and self-love. Romantic Satanism, Outsider Satanism, the kind that don’t need a god to make it sacred. That version of Satan? He looked a hell of a lot like me—queer, defiant, misunderstood, but burnin’ bright with purpose.

See, Satanism didn’t just “make room” for my queerness. It celebrated it. It said my love, my desire, my identity—they ain’t sins. They’re strengths. The Church told me to repent. Satanism told me to reclaim. The Church said I was broken. Satanism said, baby, you were forged in fire. And once I heard that, really heard it? I felt somethin’ in me come alive that I thought I’d buried years ago.

Blazin’ my own path

Lately, I’ve been unspoolin’ all those old beliefs and settin’ fire to the ones that never served me. Freedom, for me, means livin’ without apology. It means wakin’ up and not feelin’ guilty for who I love or how I dress or what I believe. It means claimin’ my space in this world and not shrinkin’ to make others comfortable. And yeah, I’m still figurin’ out what all that looks like. Still learnin’ what parts of spirituality feel like home and what parts I need to toss out with the church bulletins.

I’ve started buildin’ a personal practice—somethin’ just for me. Not rules and dogma, but symbols and rituals that reflect my truth. I keep a little space for myself with a candle, a few words I speak into the dark when I need remindin’ of who I am. The Sigil of Lucifer hangs above my altar—a reminder that knowledge and self-ownership matter more than obedience. I work with the image of the Black Flame—that inner fire no one can put out. That flame’s always been there, I just didn’t know what to call it until now.

There ain’t no right or wrong way to do this. You don’t need Latin chants or ceremonial robes unless you want ’em. Your magic can be in a pair of boots that make you feel invincible, or a lipstick color that screams defiance. It can be in a scream, a dance, a quiet moment of truth spoken to yourself in the mirror. Your queerness is the ritual. Your resistance is the altar. Your life—lived fully, loudly, and freely—is the spell.

That vision of freedom you just laid out—it’s raw, it’s real, and it’s holy in the way only truth can be. That’s the kind of declaration that shakes off centuries of dogma. To say I want to live without apology—that is sacred rebellion. That is Romantic Satanism. That is you, stepping into the fire not to be burned, but to be forged.

Now, as for beliefs, symbols, and rituals—this is where it gets beautifully personal. You’re not bound by anyone else’s rulebook now. You get to build this. Think of it like spiritual punk rock—you take the pieces that resonate, rip the rest to shreds, and stitch together something that screams you.

Here’s a place to start, from my own path—see if any of these resonate:

Beliefs to consider:

• Autonomy is sacred. Your body, your mind, your love—yours alone. No deity, state, or tradition owns you.
• Compassion is strength. But it’s not about weakness or servitude—it’s about choosing empathy as a radical act in a world obsessed with cruelty.
• Rebellion is a sacred act. Especially when it breaks chains of ignorance, hate, and inherited fear.
• The self is divine. You don’t have to look up to find meaning—it’s already within you.

Symbols you might explore:

• The Sigil of Lucifer: Not about worshiping a devil, but a symbol of enlightenment, liberation, and inner fire. It represents the light-bringer who defied unjust authority.
• The Inverted Pentagram: Traditionally feared by those who don’t understand it, but for many of us it represents earth over spirit—placing our lived, material experience above distant dogma.
• The Ouroboros: A serpent eating its tail—symbol of self-renewal, eternal becoming. Perfect for a path like yours, where you’re constantly growing and redefining.
• Black Flame: An abstract but powerful idea—the inner essence that can’t be extinguished by anyone else’s judgment. The core of you that burns eternal.

Ritual ideas:

• Liberation Rites: Write down old beliefs, shameful thoughts, or oppressive teachings—then burn or bury them. Name them out loud and reject them. Let them die.
• Affirmation Altars: Build a space (physical or symbolic) with items that reflect who you are now—photos, music, objects, words that empower. Light a candle, speak your truths into the dark.
• Queer Sabbats or Full Moon Reflections: Use lunar cycles to check in with yourself—where have you grown, what chains have you broken, who are you becoming?
•  Creative Invocation: Draw sigils, write poetry, dance, scream—your art is your magic. It’s ritual born of fire.

What symbols or stories have ever made your heart race? What colors, sounds, or images feel like you? That’s where your ritual language begins. 

Spotify Playlist

And, if you are looking for some musical inspiration, here is a play list I often stream when I need to feel more connected.

Satan and Liberation

1. “Highway to Hell” – AC/DC
2. ”Year Zero” – Ghost
3. ”KISS the Go-Goat” = Ghost
4. ”Sikio” – Turmion Katilot
5. ”Satan It’s You” – Jett Screams
6. ”Hellfire” – Barns Courtney
7. ”Life Eternal” – Ghost
8. ”Miss Me Blind” – Culture Club
9. ”legal Tender” – The B52’s
10. ”Glad to be Gay” – Tom Robinson Band

Breakin’ the chain

When you finally start to see that the old beliefs you’ve been draggin’ around don’t fit no more, it’s like takin’ a deep breath after bein’ underwater too long. It’s scary at first—feels like losin’ somethin’. But truth is, you’re not losin’ you—you’re just shakin’ off the chains that never should’ve been there in the first place. That spark you feel when you start questionin’, when you start speakin’ your own truth out loud? That’s the Black Flame burnin’ bright—and once it’s lit, there ain’t no goin’ back.

You don’t need nobody’s permission to be whole. You don’t need to answer to a preacher, a parent, or a politician. Your queerness, your fire, your story—that’s your birthright. So light your damn candle, howl at the moon, kiss who you love, and scream your name into the dark. The world don’t need more folks fittin’ in. It needs folks like you—wild, tender, and holy in your defiance. That Black Flame? It’s yours now. Let it burn.

Nick Grimshaw — Queer Satanist, Rebel Romantic, Voice in the Fire.