Hold me like a weapon,
bite me like a sin,
and watch me burn—
because I’m yours,
wild and wanting,
and I want it—
every savage, filthy second.

I lick the cruelty off your lips
and say thank you.

Slow—devout—
as though your hands are holy
and I’m the altar you’ve prayed for.

I feel your hunger,
how it trembles in your breath,
how your eyes have already carved me open.
I am not afraid.

Let me be your sacrament.
Your forbidden fruit,
your crimson communion,
still warm in your mouth.

Bite gently, or don’t.
Tear what you need.
There’s no sin in this—
I give myself willingly.
I want to live inside you.

You—
you will know the real taste of divinity.

And when I am gone,
you will be full.
And I will be yours.
Entirely. Eternally. Internally.
In every aching, holy bite.

Your name—my final psalm—
pressed between teeth, bled into prayer.
A devotion that digs past skin.

What temple could hold you better
than the hollowed chapel of my ribs?

I swallowed you in whispers.
Slow, reverent.
As if the closer I took you in,
the more of you I’d never lose.

Now you echo in my marrow,
a relic too sacred to rot.
They call it desecration.
I call it closeness.

Let them pray in fear.
I’ve already tasted heaven.

I kept thinking you’d soften
if I stayed quiet enough,
if I showed you what gentleness and love looked like,
that you might try it on.

But you never changed.
You never even blinked.
And I kept bleeding
thinking it was part of love.

I wanted you to be better.
Not for me-
but for you.
But wanting didn’t make you kind.
It only made me blind.

You didn’t hurt me by accident.
That’s just how you are.
And I’ve spent too long
writing apologies in my own pain
for expecting more.

So I’ll stop pretending
there’s a softer version of you
waiting just around the corner,
just to make things a little easier.

I loved a ghost
stitched from soft words
and glances that meant nothing.
I touched a dream
and swore it had a pulse.
And now I grieve
not you-
but the person I thought you were.