Worship

January 6

There’s a kind of hunger that feels like worship—
slow, deliberate, holy in its own ruined way.
A gravity that pulls you down to the floor
long before the mind catches up,
long before the body understands why it’s trembling.

It starts with the tilt of a hand in your hair,
the curl of fingers that guide your head just enough
to make your breath stutter like a hymn half-forgotten.
A soft command wrapped in silence,
and suddenly your pulse is kneeling
even if your body isn’t yet.

There’s something sacred in the way you break for me—
not violently, not loudly,
but with that quiet, aching surrender
that only the devout ever manage.
The kind of submission that feels like offering,
like sacrifice,
like you’re laying every trembling piece of yourself
at the feet of someone who knows exactly
how to use you.

Your spine curves like a bow pulled tight,
your throat opens like scripture waiting to be spoken,
your breath spills out in ragged little praises
you don’t even realize you’re whispering.
Every gasp is a vow.
Every shiver is a confession.
Every moan is a psalm you can’t hold back.

And the way you arch—
God, that arch—
it’s an altar all its own.
A shape made for being claimed,
for being held down,
for being guided into that holy, trembling place
where want becomes worship
and obedience becomes instinct.

There’s a moment—
right when my hand grips your hair
and your body melts into the sheets—
that you stop thinking entirely.
You don’t choose to submit.
You fall into it,
like a believer collapsing at the foot of something
they’ve spent their whole life trying not to name.
You pray without words.
You offer without hesitation.
And every thrust, every cry, every tightening fist
becomes a liturgy written in sweat and breath,
a devotion raw enough to shake the air.

You don’t worship me.
You worship the way I take you.
The way I claim you.
The way I pull the truth out of your body
until you’re nothing but want
and trembling faith.

By the time you realize you’re on your knees,
it’s already too late—
you’re praying for more,
praying for release,
praying for the next command
like it’s the only language your body remembers.

And I answer you
the way a god would—
with my hands,
with my grip,
with the kind of ruin
that feels like salvation.