worship

He worships me
with hands like altars,
with teeth like prayers.
Every touch, a sermon.
Every bite, communion.

He ruins me
not with rage, but reverence.
Like he’s dismantling a temple
just to understand the architecture.
Not to break it,
but to belong inside it.

He is soft like surrender.
And then he isn’t.
He is storm and shelter,
arms that cradle,
fingers that press too deep.

He doesn’t make me feel good.
Not in the clean, safe,
Sunday-morning kind of way.

No.

He makes me feel seen.
Like a crime scene.
Examined, studied,
taped off,
and unforgettable.

And that.
That is the worst kind of intimacy.
The kind where eye contact is an autopsy,
and love feels like exposure.

And it’s also the best.
Because who knew ruin
could feel so much like resurrection?
And being undone
could make me feel so whole?

He strips me down
until there is no performance left.
Just raw nerve,
and an ache I don’t want cured.

And that’s not love.
Not exactly.
It’s something older,
more dangerous.
Sacred.

It’s worship.
A bid for salvation.

And I am terrified
of how holy
it makes me feel.