I do not remember writing them.
But they remember me.

They rose like breath in a temple at midnight—
words soaked in heat,
trembling between fingers and hunger,
and I wrote them as if I had always known.

They came from below the skin,
from the mouth behind the mouth,
from Her.

She moved in me like wine moves in a cup.
No voice, no command—just heat,
and the ache to let go.

I was not the poet.
I was the parchment.
I was not the speaker.
I was the vessel.

I was written.
I was taken.
I was the opened altar.

The lines bled from my soul like honey from the wound.
And when they were done, I was left sweating and empty,
like after love,
like after birth,
like after exorcism.

I call them poems.
But they are spells.
Screams.
Visions.
The holy venom of a Queen I dared to swallow.

So if you ask me,
“Who wrote this?”
I will say:

“She did.
Through me.
With fire.”