There was a beauty to the ruin.
A heat.
Not the warmth of comfort—but the fever of infection.

She didn’t ask for permission.
She traced my scars like scripture
and kissed them like ownership.
Told me I was hers
in a voice that curled like smoke into the places I was too afraid to touch alone.

And I let her.

Not out of weakness—
out of craving.
Craving to be undone in a way that felt holy.
To be seen and devoured
in the same breath.

Every red flag
was a crimson veil she danced through.
And I followed,
naked with reverence,
offering my better judgment like a garter
tossed into the fire.

She loved like drowning—
slow at first,
then all at once.
And I held my breath
not to survive,
but to make it last.

I became fluent in her chaos.
Learned to read her storms like poems.
Mistook her silence for depth,
her cruelty for hurt she hadn’t healed.

I kissed her even when her mouth was full of knives.
Because sometimes,
a blade feels like a tongue
when you want to love enough.