Beneath the moon's cold gaze,
the lamb stands still,
her hair woven with wildflowers,
their fragile stems clinging to her skin,
a quiet declaration of survival.

The wolves circle in shadows,
their breath thick with knowing,
not hunger,
but the weight of her story,
the rebellion beneath her silence.

It began with his hands,
the boy who touched her scars
as if naming them holy.
Her body, aching,
spoke in confessions only his fingertips could read,
a language of wounds and wars.

The wolves see everything—
how she unravels in his presence,
how her lies are shards of truth,
jagged, trembling,
strung between her ribs.

Insects hum in rhythm with her undoing,
blades cutting where words could not.
First his. Then hers.
And afterward, his hands again,
searching for something unbroken
amid the ruins.

Dust settles on crushed wildflowers,
petals buried beneath the weight of their becoming.
Faith and doubt collide in glances,
unspoken, untethered.

Still, she remains.
The lamb, no longer an offering,
but a testament.
The wolves bite into her defiance,
but she does not fall.
She waits, silent,
for the boy who believed,
to see her,
sacred.