Just before dusk, she knew where not to look. From the eyes that had stared at her too long—or the lips that quivered when he held her, or maybe the hands that noticed her cold, warred body—he covered it with nothing but warm tenderness. She knew that even from afar, his love would weaken all the places that made her angry. She does not have to wrestle with God anymore.
She knew herself to be an impoverished, wretched soul, one who wanted to devour every bit of his skin, to nibble at his soft, gentle flesh—she promised to eat him gently. Yet there was a deeper longing still: to have a glimpse of the heaven she was taught would be hers if she repents. But the more she tried, the more she wanted to interminably devour him—every bone, every goodness—his soft lips reoccurring, lulling her even more to corruption.
The wanting.
The adrenaline.
The hunger.
He makes a terrible sacrifice—she knows only foolishness in its objectives. The more he becomes gentle, the greater the hunger grows. She is sick in the head, the priest declares. She confesses again and again, yet her hunger keeps tugging at her soul—his tongue, her yearning.
She does not have to wrestle with God. And yet my God—why does her desire want him in a way that is holy? She felt the weight of God, but her desire urges her to euthanize him as a dog so he could be devoured.
It must be her punishment. Violence has stripped her modesty, sharp as needles sewn into rotten flesh.
Feb 6
Feb 6, 2026 at 2:30 AM UTC
Just before dusk, she knew where not to look. From the eyes that had stared at her too long—or the lips that quivered when he held her, or maybe the hands that noticed her cold, warred body—he covered it with nothing but warm tenderness. She knew that even from afar, his love would weaken all the places that made her angry. She does not have to wrestle with God anymore.
She knew herself to be an impoverished, wretched soul, one who wanted to devour every bit of his skin, to nibble at his soft, gentle flesh—she promised to eat him gently. Yet there was a deeper longing still: to have a glimpse of the heaven she was taught would be hers if she repents. But the more she tried, the more she wanted to interminably devour him—every bone, every goodness—his soft lips reoccurring, lulling her even more to corruption.
The wanting.
The adrenaline.
The hunger.
He makes a terrible sacrifice—she knows only foolishness in its objectives. The more he becomes gentle, the greater the hunger grows. She is sick in the head, the priest declares. She confesses again and again, yet her hunger keeps tugging at her soul—his tongue, her yearning.
She does not have to wrestle with God. And yet my God—why does her desire want him in a way that is holy? She felt the weight of God, but her desire urges her to euthanize him as a dog so he could be devoured.
It must be her punishment. Violence has stripped her modesty, sharp as needles sewn into rotten flesh.
I keep reminding myself that desire is a humanely way to feel things, that if theres shame, there is also love that does not fear. I am now in a season that a daily reminder of you need to be gentle to yourself is indeed a heavy weight that I have to take note of.
That being cared for, seen for, does not have to be corresponded with shame. Love casts out fear.
