i am not chaste
i am consecrated
i am milk soured by memory
a god-shaped hunger

they call me mother
as if i haven’t learned to bite
as if devotion doesn’t draw blood
from the mouth that sings it

my body is a temple
built to be entered
by breath
by rhythm
by want

they mistake my hips for invitation
as if invitation
is not power
as if pleasure doesn’t kneel
before it opens

i am restraint with a heartbeat
teeth sheathed in song

i echo in the feral places
hips that remember the hunt
hands that could kill
but learned instead
how to hold

don’t mistake this softness
for surrender
i choose the world
over the pleasure of ending it
with sweetness so intense
it interrupts destruction