:lock_with_ink_pen: Riven

Hangover paused my inspiration ngl

Right now writing a novel, well perhaps something more structured.

That was the last yap about love I swear.

I was still learning the language

of closeness.

Still tracing the outlines of my own name

in the mirror

When you asked me

to speak fluently in love.

You were fluent.

Fluent in leaving,

in measuring depth like it was a game of hours

and not a season of becoming.

You said you were fulfilled,

as if I was a task

and not a person growing toward you.

I wasn't ready.

Not because I didn't care,

but because I cared so much

it burned to breathe in.

But I still held the match,

still struck flame against the wind

just to see if I could light something

inside of me.

You didn't wait.

You didn't even pause.

Just offered friendship

Like a consolation prize

wrapped in your own convenience.

"Friends with benefits,"

you said,

as if my ruin was negotiable.

But I'm not a spare key.

Not a maybe in your pocket

for lonely evenings.

I was

a cathedral in progress,

still laying bricks

while you walked out of the back door

whistling closure.

II. The Hunger of Saints.

—Worship tastes like rot when you know it's for you.—

They came–

knees cracked,

tongues flayed,

with lanterns full of teeth.

They sang me into being

with voices stitched from grief.

Their prayers crawled

like oil through a sieve,

soft and black,

and begged me

not to leave.

I didn't speak.

I opened.

And they poured in.

The devout do not knock–

they invade.

With hunger for mercy,

they make a god out of shade.

They anointed me

in spoiled milk and blood-warm wine,

laid fruits before my altar

that wept along the rind.

Flesh peeled.

Hands trembled.

They brought me their sin

with shaking silver spoons

and begged me to begin.

Each praise

was a nail through the wrist,

each hymn a moth in my chest.

And still–

I devoured.

To be worshipped

is to be eaten

in a slow ceremony,

bit by sacred bit.

But what is hunger

if not a wound in disguise?

A need mistaken for purpose–

a mouth given eyes.

They wanted love.

I gave them silence dressed in silk.

They kissed my feet,

so I let them drown

in honey soured into milk.

Until–

a child laid her faith

in my palm

like a pressed flower.

No blood. No fear.

Only the hush of believing.

And for a moment

I felt full.

A silence vast enough to swallow time.

No craving.

No command.

Only being.

It sickened me.

Now their prayers rot

before they reach my throne.

Their chants ring hollow

in this temple of bone.

And I–

once starving–

find nothing left to crave,

but the quiet

they were always so afraid to save.