Lewd Lullaby -

My voice is not a mother’s. It is the crack in the chapel ceiling through which the rain seeps, dark and fertile. It is the whisper between the ribs of a dying fire—warm, corrupt, and patient. I will sing you a song that doesn’t put you to sleep, but wakes the part of you that sleeps wrong .

The night is not for innocence. It never was. lewd lullaby

Let the melody crawl. Let it find the hinge of your hip, the hollow behind your ear, the small of your back where shame has tucked its claws. This is not love. This is not even lust. This is the admission —that every gentle thing has a twin made of teeth and want. That the same hand which rocks the cradle has gripped the throat. My voice is not a mother’s

So listen.

You wanted to be good. But good is a cage with a golden lock. Tonight, I hold the key, and it tastes of rust and honey. I will sing you a song that doesn’t

And it will call itself peace .