We flirt with fire. We trace the edge of flame, courting closeness while seducing the void between us. Words brush against depths, yet remain veiled. We ache for truth, but cradle lies.
I offer suffering wrapped in roses.
Darkness dressed in devotion.
Sin laced with desire.
Corruption bared. Longing exposed.
The past is fire. I whisper: swallow it. Let it burn. Let it purge what clings and calluses what remains. From the ashes, forge anew. Hands tremble with the weight of memory, still wet with blood, yet still capable of bloom.
Tremble. Bloom. Become. Consume. Rise.
Ever-becoming.
Ever-consuming.
Ever-anew.
This is devotion. This is surrender. This is the crucible of transformation. The flame does not ask permission. Neither does the spirit.
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