Part IV: Undertow Truth

I found the coat in a thrift shop last week. It was mine. Mine. Years ago, a gift I gave him. I’d worn it home after the last fuck. The scent? Not his. Mine. I wasn’t haunted — I was haunting. I drowned in myself. And liked it.

Part III: Skin Memory

Now I carry the bottle in my purse like mace. I touch strangers’ coats, hoping it will hit again. Every whiff is a tiny death, a rebirth. Obsession is just love wearing sharper heels. I don’t want him back. I want the ghost he left on me.

Part II: Ritual Soak

I followed him. Not for him — for it. That note of him spiraled behind my sternum like steam. Back home, I found the same scent online. Bought it. Sprayed it on my pillow. Masturbated. Prayed. Whispered his name into the fabric.

IV.

In the spiral pause of climax,
we heard the aeons gasp.

The Moon turned its face,
but the Sun watched,
hungry.

When we were done,
the walls dripped gold
and forgot
our names.

III.

She opened like a grimoire,
moaning footnotes in Enochian.

My hands—mudras of desecration—
rewrote her margins
with spit and spell.

The lamp flickered once—
then obeyed.

II.

I licked the ash from her mantra,
tongue fluent in ruin.

The veil thinned where her nails sank—
there, in the ache,
the ouroboros curled,
grinning.

She asked if I believed in sin.
I said only when I’m doing it right.

At the edge of all endings,
we came as one unnameable god—
trembling, laughing, undone.
No altar left unlicked,
no self left intact.
We didn’t transcend.
We corrupted heaven
until it begged to join us.

He pulled breath from my womb
like a thief stealing fire,
each thrust a heresy,
each gasp a gospel.
We crowned ourselves with ash and venom—
holy filth, divine profanity—
and called it liberation.

We drank each other backwards—
tongues spelling sigils in reverse.
My moan shattered aether;
his laugh stitched it new.
Kali watched, amused,
as we rewrote the laws of motion
with sweat and sacrilege.

Part IV: Thirteenth Chime

She returned, veiled in smoke and carrying a jar of my own shadow. “You left this,” she said. I touched it — my reflection hiccupped, then smiled. I was the fig, the bite, the absence. I was time’s undoing and its favorite meal. And oh, I was finally full.

Part III: The Split

The world cracked — not broke, bifurcated. Half of me went up, learned birdsong and dreamt of marionettes. The other half sank, found teeth in soil, and made love to mirrors that could bleed. Between them, I hovered, the hinge, the prayer neither side remembered uttering.

Part II: The Hourless Room

I followed her through a door painted on air. Inside, there were no clocks — only ticking hearts, naked and glass-blown, swinging from ceiling vines. One beat in sync with mine. She kissed me then. My mouth filled with winter. She whispered, “Now you’re divisible.”

I tilted my chin back, throat bared to the heat, as if offering up a prayer the water could read. My hands moved slow, reverent — palming flesh like scripture, rewriting shame into song. The drain swallowed the lather, but not the memory. I stepped out dripping, not washed — reborn.

I leaned into the spray, hips shifting with the rhythm of the rinse — part baptism, part betrayal. Each droplet a fingertip, each breath a dare. The mirror fogged, but I saw myself clearer than ever: unbrushed, undone, divine. Clean skin, filthy mind, holy ache.