In a room that smelled of sweat and silence,

you lit no candles, said no names.

Your hands moved like sacrilege,

tracing hymns across my ribs.

We spoke in breaths,

not words—

in that borrowed haven,

where guilt undressed itself.

And I took your mouth like the Eucharist,

held it in the hollow of my tongue.

You made a chapel of my ruin,

turned confession into flesh.

I drank from your skin like mercy,

and called it salvation with a stain.

The ceiling peeled in tired patches,

curtains crooked, sun defiled.

You knelt without grace

but with the authority of sin.

No redemption

in your smile—

just the glory

of undoing.

And I took your mouth like the Eucharist,

held it in the hollow of my tongue.

You made a chapel of my ruin,

turned confession into flesh.

I drank from your skin like mercy,

and called it salvation with a stain.

Your spine a staircase for lost prayers,

your nails carved relics in my hips.

We were both altar and offering,

both the sermon and the shame.

I won’t forget that silence breathing,

the way you baptized me in vice.

No need to heal.

The wound was holy.