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according to Pope John Paul II,
“the body, and it alone, is capable of making visible what is invisible, the spiritual and divine. it was created to transfer into the visible reality of the world, the invisible mystery hidden in God since time immemorial, and thus to be a sign of it.” (2005: 49)
perhaps the divide between the spirit and the soul is what makes the entirety of you so fascinating; you, whose spirit is chained to a god whose name you do not know, face you cannot see, only for you to be forevermore bounded in a life enveloped by the unknown.
but the soul, your soul, is what it cannot compare, and what makes it the more divine.
unmoving yet never wavering, the soul is self-centered, a being that makes us be an entity of our own, a mind and body that isn’t unconsciously attached to a nameless deity.
and the soul wanders, never stops, even prior to the fall of man, not even one god can prohibit it from becoming unfettered.
however, this i ask of you: what makes you human?
to corrupt what’s already been driven to sin, a body that yearns to be touched, to be owned by another one of its kin. the demise of a mortal that yearns the cool, impure tinge of Samael, fallen angel casted out by He, is almost impeccable and worthy of admiration.
alas, you are nowhere near stainless, covered in death’s caress, your body now of pure evidence that no mortal can bear a life without becoming self-sufficient with desire, lust, and carnal relish.
i may not be kind, but i am not so treacherous to condemn you into damnation without your permission. temptation is a potent drug, but the pining that resides in an impious human such as yourself, you who regards the depictions of devils such as i, as pitiful creatures, is an inclination in bequething my own defenses, letting myself become helpless under the delicate, feathery fingers that even i unmistakably took for as Chamuel’s, that even i can’t restrain myself against.
vulnerability means to receive your sympathy; sympathy from a human who knew nothing of the invisible ties between the real and unreal, a human who touches the faded scars on my skin, my lips, as if it were nothing, but rather brings you a certain intrigue, coming closer and closer to enslave both aching bodies at a proximity that i’ve grown quite familiar with, but feels much more foreign under the guise of your fingertips, like silk resting itself upon stone-cold metal.
i see visions, columns of embers sparking from the short contact, and i begin to pounce.
you, who had every right to be frightened, compelled, and disgusted, looked at me with eyes that seek truth. you sought for the truth beneath my rage, vengeance, the ugliness of it all.
you never once withdrew. that, i now have come to realize. it was i who was hesitant, and you who had already accepted me in my truest form, no matter how horrid it may have been, just as He had done.
but even He, humane to you, casts out angels that were once beautiful in His eyes.
and that is when i begin to feel heaven’s wrath in the calm of your storm, and the sea of fire awakening in the abyss of your innermost essence, coursing through the blood in your veins like it were the sustenance you need, that we need.
and for once, i regard how almighty this very god is that you devote yourself entirely to.
i carefully move above you as i slowly skim my own digits across your frail form, and you yield at my touch, scorching, as rough fingers casually trace along the edges of your skin, taking into memory which section causes you to shiver the most.
i’ve held many a woman in my time of yore, but none came too close to the feverish, manic sensation that pents up in each mewl that escapes the space between your lips, a space i want to mark and own for myself.
i know my place, and it isn’t where you are most near. but hell is nowhere close to the chambers that keep us close, and i allow myself to be selfish for once, to become gentle without prying eyes that call for a need of judgement.
delicately drawing my fingers across your southern region, the ache between your thighs quivers upon contact, digits slowly pressing alongside the corner of your folds. a bit lazy, but tantalizing enough for you to come undone.
without a warning, my tongue presses against the flesh that blooms, opening as if to welcome, and you shudder at the slick feeling that ghosts over your entrance, lapping with long, slow strokes that mercilessly forces a plead out of you.
and i look at you, and for all that is holy, from your now florid skin and your throbbing cunt, i see the entity of you that captivates me whole.
the saccharine tang lingers in my tongue, remembering each furor that trickled through my lips, as it grazes along the nub. it’s messy, but as i grab your chin and finally come close to lips as sickly as the forbidden fruit, the aftertaste of you soils in the rupture of your mouth, taking me in, basking in the blasphemous seed of your own.
the irony comes, and i somehow find myself rendering praises of worship that come as close as to your unholy divinity.
holy, holy, holy is the song that streams out of your swollen lips, for angels as melodic as those that descend upon earth with harps and voices as sweet as honey, could never resemble in your perverted longing for a touch that isn’t almost real, that defies both the gods and the prophecies that prolongs an eternity filled with paradise.
the sin of you leaves its traces in my mouth, a taste that i’d forever revel in. the absence is a thought and emptiness that follows even while you were still here, beneath my control. but i wasn’t so in control, not when you have me tightened in your own command, eyes unraveling the mystery of my own faith, silent yet present.
so i carve myself, deep onto you, burying the essence
of me into the core that reaches the peak of your soul, and a momentary pause occurs, where eyes meet, and one understands the beauty of a maiden pristine, yet defiled with a paradox of thoughts that no man or woman can puzzle together, and the exiled of He under the mercy of the woman’s visible hunger for erotic want.
you take me in, stretching the empty space that you so desperately need to be filled, and it is as ironic as to say that the union of our bodies, hot and pouring sweat unto the other, almost seems sacramental.
but i follow no god, and nothing of our short affair imparted the grace that blankets your very existence.
the walls of your inner core contract and the ceiling suddenly expands to the size of a dome that fills up the sky and replicates the celestial bodies beyond, and my hips writhe from the urgency of your movement, wanting and far from done. so my hands grip onto your small waist, recklessly sinking myself into you, your one leg now rested upon my shoulder as the girth reaches you further, and the four corners of the room somehow began to unwind at the same pace.
this now is bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh, the first man of He said to the first woman, as i recall.
pity you are not mine to hold, to share the burden of the otherworld in its destructive territory.
in my eyes, in the vast disorder that reeks of corruption that is my mind, you live a life eternal elsewhere than heaven, for even He cannot pardon what has been tainted with guilt, daughter of Lilith.