#altarfangs

[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]

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]

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.