I didn’t choose my name.

It was carved into me.

I spoke it aloud.

Craig

It did not echo. It entered.

The name was not found.
It was revealed—

wrenched from the silence between worlds.
And what met me there remains sealed in shadow.

Obsession

my obsession is not hidden.

I move between lust sadist hedonism addiction

vested in vestments that make the holy obscene.

Where the body trembles not in shame, but in revelation.

Where gods come to watch.

Of Blood and Belief

I did not inherit my faith. I bled for it.

Educated in divinity, I drank not from dogma

but from the poisoned wells of philosophy, mysticism, and myth.
I read scripture like a lover’s letter—
smudged, stained, and desperate for meaning.

I have gospels never canonized.
I have whispered with the Watchers.
I have knelt at altars built from torn pages and broken vows.

My theology is fleshbound.
My sermons are moans.
And my prayers are often answered

in ruin, in rapture.

Of Ruins and Resurrection

In my cathedral of the mind, the windows are cracked,
the icons defaced, and every surface slick with longing.

I speak in perversions no seminary could teach.

I edge the veil

the feral, flickering place where desire becomes doctrine.

The body is both scripture and heresy,
and here, we are unrepentantly whole.

Of Welcome and the Worthy

This space is consecrated for those who crave beyond the binary. No guilt. No shame. No denial of what makes you ache.

if your heart beats louder in the presence of ritual,
if your spirit hums when forbidden doors creak open—

Then you’re not broken.
You’re chosen.

Of Fetish and Faith

My Theology is fetish, sex and drugs

Angels who fell not from pride, but from lust

The sacred and profane intertwined in a single trembling body

This is my scripture.

Of Justice and the Veil

This is a sacred container.

It does not exist for spectacle.

We honor empathy. We demand respect.

Bring your reverence and your ruin.
Come holy. Come haunted.
But come correct.

Of Confession and Catharsis

Strip. Not just your body—your pretense.

your truths. Bleed them if you must

Here, the sacred doesn’t just forgive.
It feasts.

And in that hunger,

we are unmade,
we are undone,
and we are remade.