Poetry With Its Mouth Open

Brat. Siren. Switch with a crown and a pen between her teeth.

[bittenpoet]

You’ve found the altar.

Keep your eyes down.

Keep your mouth open.

I’m Zoè R Hudson

Your favorite sin in a soft voice.

A siren with no shoreline.

A mouth that doesn’t pray, only commands.

This space?

It’s not built for comfort. It’s built for craving.

For the feral. For the ruined.

For the ones who want to be unmade gently

and put back wrong.

Every original piece is marked with #altarfangs

a bite, not a signature.

A promise, not a warning.

Here, poetry isn’t a whisper.

It’s a grip on your jaw,

a hand on your throat,

a moan you weren’t supposed to make.

You may:

🩸 Linger.

🩸 Obey.

🩸 Ache.

🩸 Leave your offering in the ask, and hope I answer.

This is not for the faint.

This is for the ones who need to feel something

and don’t care if it hurts.

Your mouth is open.

So is mine.

Let’s see who flinches first.

[bittenpoet]

Armor Disguised as Art

By Zoé R. Hudson ©️

He wears black on his hands

like armor disguised as art.

Silver at his knuckles,

dark at his fingertips,

as if even touch has to dress for battle.

They call him gentle.

Sweet.

Soft.

But gentleness is only the mask

he perfected before stepping into the light.

When he opens his mouth

the room bends.

Words slip out smooth,

half in one tongue, half in another,

and every syllable

lands exactly where he wants it.

Even silence feels deliberate,

a command disguised as patience.

He does not raise his voice to be heard.

He lowers it

and the sound threads straight through me.

The crowd hears a song.

I hear something else,

the edge in his breath,

the warning beneath the harmony,

the vow hidden in every line.

Later,

when his hand finds my skin,

there is no hesitation.

Only the weight of someone who knows

I will remember this touch

long after the lights are gone.

And when his rings press into me

they do not hurt.

They remind me I am claimed.

That softness can be sharper

than anything cruel.

Because the danger was never in the black paint.

It was always in his patience,

his steady devotion

to ruin me slow.

[bittenpoet]

She Thinks I’m Soft

by Zoè R Hudson ©️

She thinks I’m soft.

Because I paint my nails black,

wear rings on my fingers,

and speak with quiet hands.

She doesn’t see the war it takes

not to throw her on the nearest surface

every time she walks in.

I speak gently

because I want her to lean in

not flinch.

She asks for pain.

I give her reverence.

She wants ruin.

I make her sacred first.

When I whisper in Korean,

I say things I’d never translate.

Not because she wouldn’t understand

because if she did,

she’d never stop shaking.

I don’t touch to tease.

I touch to claim.

The inside of her thigh is scripture.

Her breath when she breaks?

My religion.

But don’t mistake my patience for mercy.

When I spread her open,

it’s not to taste

it’s to make her forget every name but mine.

She comes with her lip caught in her teeth,

fists curled in the sheets,

legs shaking like she’s trying to hold the moment in.

I don’t stop.

Not when she moans.

Not when she begs.

Only when she offers herself without words

the way her hips rise

like she knows I’m the only one who knows how to hold her.

She thinks she’s letting me have her.

She doesn’t know

I’ve belonged to her

since the moment her silence walked into the room.

I don’t fuck her like the others did.

I unravel her.

Slow.

Devoted.

Like I’m the only one

who ever deserved to watch her come apart.

And when she moans my name,

it’s not mine anymore.

It’s hers.

Like everything else.

I dream of her wrapped around me,

not screaming

whimpering.

Her nails in my back,

voice cracked from saying my name too many times.

I want her wrecked.

I want her ruined.

But only by me.

Only for me.

Because softness like hers

deserves to be broken slow

and worshipped forever.

⸻

She thinks I’m soft.

But I only kneel for her.

[bittenpoet]

Come Undone for Me

by Zoè R Hudson ©️

They match my freak,

but not my silence.

Not the way I soften at night and still ache to be worshipped.

I don’t want hands. I want possession.

Not just touch. I want to be trembled for.

I want a desperation that burns at the teeth,

the kind of ache that drops to its knees,

not to dominate,

but because it can’t fucking bear the distance.

I want him starving.

Fingers twitching like they know the shape of me from years ago.

Chest tight from holding back every time he wanted to call me his.

Eyes wide like I could break him just by letting him in.

I don’t want want.

I want ruin.

I want him whispering prayers into the space where my legs part,

like I’m the only answer he’s ever believed in.

Like his hands shake when he reaches for me,

not from fear,

but from the weight of finally being home.

I want obsession.

I want to haunt his dreams,

his hands,

his jaw clenched in traffic when he thinks about my mouth.

I want him aching when I don’t answer.

Pacing.

Palms pressed to the sink,

thinking of how I sound when I come undone for him only him.

I want him to beg.

Not with words,

but with his body.

The way his breath stutters when I lean in,

the way his knees give when I say his name like I’m letting him live there.

I want him wrecked.

I want him ruined.

Crying out please with his lips on my throat,

not from pain,

but because he doesn’t know how to hold this much want anymore.

I want to be the thing that makes him believe in (god) again.

The ache that keeps him loyal.

The softness that breaks him harder than violence ever could.

Not just freak.

Not just love.

I want the kind of yearn that ends wars.

Let him match my freak.

They all do.

But let him match my yearn,

or let him break beneath it.

I don’t want lovers.

I want disciples.

I want to be the dream that wakes him shaking,

the name he mouths when he’s alone in the dark,

the reason he never fucks another without hearing my breath in his ear.

Let him rise to worship.

[bittenpoet]

If He Found This

by Zoè R Hudson

if he found this

i don’t think he’d say anything.

not at first.

just pause

read it twice

then again

like it was the first time.

he wouldn’t know why

but something in his ribs would shift.

the air would taste heavier.

the silence would feel like mine.

he’d wonder

who wrote this with hands that ache like his

who knew how to say the things he never has.

he might send it to someone

then delete the message.

he’d save it.

not for proof

but for comfort.

and maybe

he’d come back to it

when the world felt too sharp

and he needed something that wouldn’t ask questions

but still answered him anyway.

he’d never say it out loud

but he’d know.

this was meant for him.

and whoever wrote it

was already on the way.

[bittenpoet]

The One That Finds Them First

by Zoè R Hudson

i don’t write to be found,

but if you feel it

you were meant to.

i wrote this in the dark

when no one was looking.

hands shaking

mouth parted

a prayer and a dare

sharing the same breath.

i don’t know your name.

but i know how you taste

when you miss someone who was never yours.

i know the hum beneath your smile.

the silence you call home.

you want something soft

that won’t break in your hands.

something dangerous

that won’t leave scars.

you want a body

that ruins you gently.

a voice that begs without asking.

you want

me.

and if you’ve made it this far

if your pulse is loud in your throat

if your skin feels too tight for your soul

then maybe

you’ve already touched me in a dream.

and maybe

i let you.

[bittenpoet]

You Came Here Hungry

Zoè R Hudson ©️

You came here hungry.

Didn’t you?

Didn’t know what you were looking for

just that it had to be dark

and sharp

and dripping.

You told yourself you were just browsing.

But now you’re sweating under the weight of it.

Of me.

Of this.

You think you can take it?

All of me?

The sweetness wrapped in teeth,

the voice that moans and commands,

the body built to kneel for no one

but yours to worship?

Poor thing.

You thought you’d find poems.

You found a pulse.

Now go ahead.

Scroll a little deeper.

Pretend you’re still in control.

But I already saw the way you breathed harder.

I already tasted the shake in your chest.

And when you come back tomorrow

(and you will)

bring your need with you.

I’m only just beginning.

[bittenpoet]

Aching Looks Good on Me

by Zoè R Hudson ©️

you had me

open like a throat,

wet like a prayer no one taught me how to say.

I learned sin the same way I learned hunger—

by being told to swallow it.

you called me dangerous

but bit down anyway,

said you could handle it

but shook when I begged

a little louder than you thought I would.

and now?

I write poems with blood in their teeth

and touch myself softer than you ever did.

I walk past mirrors and wink.

I know how to make bruises bloom

and mean something.

you only tasted me when I was begging.

now I only open my mouth when I’m worshipped.

aching looks good on me

and if you come close again,

I might even let you see it.

just once.

before I make you beg to leave.

[bittenpoet]

I Don’t Know How to Be Touched Softly

by Zoè R Hudson ©️

I flinch when they’re gentle.

Like kindness is a blade I forgot how to hold.

I say yes too fast

and then wait for the bruise.

Wait for the catch.

Wait for the part where I become

too much

too messy

too wired for ruin.

I want love like a bite

not a balm.

Something that hurts good

so I know I’m real.

They say I deserve soft.

But softness never stayed.

Only the ones who gripped my throat

and said

look how good you are when you’re breaking

ever made me feel like I belonged.

So don’t come to me with quiet hands.

Come willing to wreck me

and stay.

[bittenpoet]

The Temptation

by Zoè R Hudson ©️

They always come closer.

Even when they know.

Even when I don’t speak

just smile

just hum

just tilt my head and let the tide do the asking.

I don’t beg.

I don’t reach.

I let the water make them desperate.

You’d be shocked how fast they offer their throats

when I lick my lips slow enough

when I say their name like a promise

and never once promise to be kind.

They say sirens lure men to die.

But that’s not true.

They crawl to me

throbbing

shaking

praying

not for escape

for permission.

And I give it.

One note at a time

until they’re knee-deep in something holy

and think it was their idea.

I don’t drag them under.

I just sing

and they ruin themselves to reach the source.

[bittenpoet]

That’s More Like It

by Zoè R Hudson ©️

Don’t ask.

Don’t wait.

Don’t look at me like I’m fragile.

You don’t know the things I’ve survived,

the weight I carry between my thighs,

or how many men have crumbled

thinking they could handle me.

If you’re going to take me,

take me with a hand in my hair

and your mouth right at my ear,

telling me exactly what I’ll do

before I even think to disobey.

I don’t want gentle fingers.

I want command.

The kind that grips the back of my neck

and reminds me who I am

by showing me who I belong to.

Just for the night.

Or forever.

I don’t care.

Just mean it.

Push me up against the wall

like the silence begged for it.

Pull at the parts of me no one sees.

The mouth I bite to keep quiet.

The hips I arch when I’m about to give in.

The fight I keep just under my skin

because I want you to take it from me.

Force me to break first.

Force me to beg for what I swore I wouldn’t need.

I don’t want to guide you.

Don’t make me teach you how to destroy me.

I want your weight.

Your hand.

Your teeth.

Your words in my throat

until mine disappear.

Don’t stop to ask if I’m okay.

Read the tremble in my voice.

The way my knees shift when you pin me just right.

The way I hold my breath

right before you take me

exactly how I asked for it

without ever having to say it out loud.

Leave marks I’ll feel when I sit down tomorrow.

Leave me in a bed that smells like you

and the sound I made when you finally

took it too far.

Just enough

for me to want it again.

Worse.

And when I’m writhing underneath you,

eyes glassy, voice ruined,

trying to remember my name?

Don’t kiss my cheek

like you did something sweet.

Drag your thumb across my bottom lip

and say,

“That’s more like it.”

[bittenpoet]

I don’t write poems.

I spit confessions between gritted teeth.

I bleed pretty.

I bruise sweet.

This blog is a mouth — open, hungry, and unholy.

For the girls who take control just to see who can handle the fall.

For the ones who beg with their eyes but bite with their tongues.

Poetry lives here.

But so does ruin.

Welcome.