moon milk and honey thighs:

the alchemy of worshipping the body as a holy vessel

your body is a scripture
i am still learning how to read.
each curve a verse,
each scar a psalm,
each breath a hymn
that makes the stars jealous.

you taste like a secret
god only whispers at midnight—
moon milk spilling over honey thighs,
alchemy sweet enough to make the universe
question its own design.
how could it take billions of years
to create something this holy,
this unapologetically human?

i want to be the priest of your ecstasy,
the worshipper at your altar,
the prayer pressed between your hips.
i want to write devotion
with my tongue against your skin,
leaving translations
in the form of teeth marks
and tender bruises.
let me spell "hallelujah"
in every language
your body understands.

this is not lust.
this is liturgy.
this is your thighs
parting like church doors,
your hips a temple,
your moans the kind of confession
that could make the devil himself kneel.

you say my name
and it sounds like a spell,
like the world cracking open
to reveal the marrow of its truth:
that flesh is not sin,
it is salvation.
that desire is not shame,
it is sanctification.
that you and i are not bodies—
we are galaxies colliding,
making new stars
out of every shudder and sigh.

i want to map the constellations
hidden in your freckles,
trace the cosmos written in your veins,
drink the wine of your body
until i forget my own name.
there is no sacrament
more sacred than the one
you offer me
when you let go.

when you let me.

when you open
like a flower too wild for gardens,
too free for cages,
too luminous to belong anywhere
but here,
in this moment.

your thighs wrapped around my shoulders
are a crown i wear
not with pride,
but with reverence.
your nectar is the anointing oil
that baptizes me
into something bigger than faith.
this is no longer prayer.
this is union.
this is creation.

your body is the chalice.
my mouth pours the wine.
together, we rewrite what it means
to call something divine.

and when you tremble beneath me,
when your breath catches like a melody
too beautiful for mortal lungs,
i know—
this is heaven.
this is how the gods wanted us to love:
messy and raw and unafraid,
worshipful and wanting,
holy and whole.

you taste like moonlight
and feel like eternity.
and when you arch into me,
when your nails press truths into my back
that even the stars have forgotten,
i know:
there is nothing in the universe
more sacred
than this.

---

here’s the thing about poetry:
it’s not just words—it’s the language of love,
the kind that makes your heart kneel
and your body rise.

my first poetry book, baptized by her touch,
is a love letter to goddess worship,
to the sacred art of adoration,
to every curve, every scar, every moan
that turns the human body
into a temple.

this isn’t a book.
it’s an offering,
an altar for those who know
the divine doesn’t live in the sky—
she’s right here,
in thighs wrapped like prayers,
in hips swaying like a psalm,
in the nectar that baptizes every lover
brave enough to taste her.

it’s raw.
it’s messy.
it’s ecstasy wrapped in metaphor.
and yes, it’s holy.

if you’ve ever wanted to worship a goddess—
not in stained glass silence,
but in wild, unbuttoned, fire-in-your-belly awe—
this book is yours.
it’s about devotion that’s unafraid,
desire that doesn’t apologize,
and love that spills over like honey
on moonlit skin.

so here’s your invitation, love:
comment “baptized” to pre-order a signed copy.
hold these pages in your hands
and feel what it’s like
to call something divine—
not because it’s perfect,
but because it’s unapologetically human.

this is goddess worship.
this is poetry.
this is how we remember
the holy in ourselves.