i was not made for gentleness. i was made for trembling hands and lips that hesitate before they fall apart on mine.
i was made to be broken with ceremony, to be loved like destruction masquerading as devotion.
there is a hunger in me that does not sleep. a fever stitched into marrow. a mouth that cannot name what it craves but opens anyway.
give me the man who calls me his undoing with reverence in his voice. the one who holds my name like a blade between his teeth and drags it across his tongue until it tastes like blood and prayer.
let me be the reason he forgets how to be good. let me be the fire he walks into willingly, knowing full well he will burn.
i will never be full. not with love. not with lust. not even with ruin.
you could give me everything, your trust, your cruelty, and i would still beg for the part that hurts the most.
because i do not want to be saved. i want to be consumed. i want the kind of ache that teaches me i am still alive.
because i am insatiable. and you are the only sin i would die to taste again.