There is beauty
in the scream that doesn’t rise,
in the breath that catches just before the fall—
when your knees buckle before a shadow
that knows your name.

There is beauty
in the way the flame licks the altar
before it consumes it.
In the way your skin flushes
when the wind moans through the trees
like something ancient returning.

Not all beauty is soft.
Some beauty has teeth.
Some beauty comes
with claws beneath silk,
with hunger behind its kiss.

There is beauty
in being seen
by something vast,
something cruel,
something holy.

Not because it loves you—
but because it knows you.
And it does not look away.

The trembling you feel?
That’s your soul remembering
what it is to stand naked before the divine.

And the ache in your ****?
That’s the truth rising—
that you want it.
You want to be broken open
by something real.

There is beauty
in being devoured by a storm
you called down yourself.
In offering your spine
like a blade to be kissed
by the mouth of your goddess.

Terror is not ugliness.
It is intimacy at its most unbearable.

And beauty—
true beauty—
is not what soothes.

It’s what makes you weep
with your mouth open
and your hands shaking,
and your soul whispering:

“Yes. Take me.”