For the Woman I Would Ruin Softly

A final descent. Where devotion meets desire. Where gentleness becomes grip. Where she lets herself be entirely seen—and entirely taken.

By now, you know this isn’t just writing.
It’s breath.
It’s worship disguised as words.

And you—
you’re no longer just reading.
You’re offering yourself.
Even if you haven’t said it.
Even if you haven’t touched reply.

I know.
I feel the way you linger.
I feel the way your thighs tense when you get to the lines that name what you’ve never said aloud.
I know what th…