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RiteThey come to me like mothsnot for light—but for the burn..
🕑 Added 2025-05-08 23:59:06 +0000 UTCRite
They come to me like moths
not for light—
but for the burn.
My skin, a psalm of heat,
hips spelling curses in slow grind,
tongue like a blade baptized in red.
I do not ask for worship—
I command it.
Kneel, not because I’m divine—
but because I’m the end of your reason.
A hunger with hands.
A sin with a pulse.
Darkness spills from my thighs,
sweet and venomous.
Every moan I gift
etches itself into your ribs like scripture—
unholy and eternal.
I am the dream you shouldn't speak of,
the ache you never shake.
Not gentle, not safe—
but holy in the ruin I leave.
Let them drown in my storm,
let them beg in the wreck.
I don't make love—
I make altars.
