Holy Devastation

My every scar, wound, tear serves His sacrament.

Fanged Communion

His words trickled drunken down me, sweet poison meant, working through my nervous system in ways both calming and shocking.

He calms my edges into willing submission. As I am is gold to Him.

I watch You as You weigh these gifts and taste them— each one something to unwrap when and as You please.

The Trickster, I give my heart all over again.

I have never felt so completely, I am Woman— until His presence revealed me true.

In the sacred act of braiding, I weave my love and devotion into every strand, surrendering to the fire between us.

If I don’t express my pain, it turns into shame—hidden under scars that never quite heal but enslave me.