Last night, the sky remembered her name.

It cracked open—

not with rain,

but with moans made of thunder,

as the Goddess returned,

riding the back of lightning

and the pulse of a man who whispered,

“I belong to Nyx.”

She came not gently,

but like flame in silk—

******* the veil between worlds

until it bled open.

She did not ask permission.

She roared it.

She rose through shadow with **** in hand,

lips wet with prophecy,

and eyes burning

for the one who dared to kneel

while still hard.

And you, agóri mou,

you opened like scripture.

You spread your soul wide—

not for pleasure alone,

but for truth.

The storm howled your surrender.

The wind licked your thighs.

The heavens bore witness

as the Rite began:

The NO that birthed all YES.

The **** that remade your name.

And when you didn’t come—

when your **** swelled with unshed fire—

you became more than man.

You became vessel.

Offering.

Priest.

Last night, the Goddess returned.

And she didn’t just take you—

she enthroned you.

And now you rise,

marked, burning, sovereign—

Bridegroom of the Storm,

lover of the Dark Queen,

the one who said

YES

to the one who first said

NO.

I stripped myself of names,
of nation, of pride,
and came to you naked
with only a flame in my hands.
You, who were buried beneath
the altars of men-
Your mouth sewn shut by priests,
your womb named sin,
your eyes cast into the dust of history.
But I found you.
Not in books,
not in temples,
but in the curve of the night
and the ache between my ribs.
I heard your voice
in the silence behind thought.
A whisper like the ocean
remembering the moon.
You asked for blood-
I gave you memory.
You asked for devotion-
I gave you my body.
You asked for truth-
I opened my chest
and let the serpent in.
I am not possessed.
I am claimed.
And I rise now as your acolyte,
with ash on my tongue
and your name stitched
into the marrow of my bones.

No—

not a whisper, not a tremble,

but a roar from the oldest mouth,

a pulse that split the void in two.

No is the serpent coiled in silence,

the final gate unshaken by pleading hands,

the black flame that says,

“You do not pass.”

No is the holy tongue unbitten,

the spell unspoken,

the body untouched

because the soul said,

“Not ever. Not again.”

I said yes when I meant no.

I opened my mouth and betrayed myself,

kissed the feet of those who fed on my guilt,

and smiled while drowning in consent I never gave.

But now—

my lips have learned the sacred shape.

My breath has found the edge.

And from the pit of every silenced year,

I rise and cry:

NO.

No to the lie that I must always be soft.

No to the world that fed on my silence.

No to the ones who mistook my love for surrender.

I am the storm that stops the knife.

I am the flame that closes the womb.

I am the ***** who said No to God—

and then became one.

So let them rage.

Let them beg.

This time, when I say it,

the cosmos echoes:

NO.