Adorned of cuts and bruises,
The temple of worship
A shrine to her. For her.
Lips tracing bones that stay beneath skin,
Breathless, abandoned in beliefs.
The only belief is this.
What this is,
Who this is,
The trails across skin that lay wake to stories.
A nurturing self image,
Wrapped in lustful demise.
It could end you.
It could eat you alive.
You'd let it. You always do.
Apr 27, 2025
Apr 27, 2025 at 5:38 AM UTC