I.
They warned me of him in whispers,
in psalms and blood-bound vows—
“Beware the Devil cloaked in flesh,
who speaks in storms and sacred howls.”
But I was born for fire,
not for folded hands and shame.
And when I saw him, eyes like hunger—
I knew my soul had found its flame.

II.
He came not cruel, but honest,
not gentle—but divinely wild.
His voice, a serpent’s lullaby,
his mouth, the ruin of the mild.
He touched no skin, yet drenched my thighs
with nothing but a gaze—
a god in exile, crowned in sin,
who set my holy ache ablaze.

III.
“Are you afraid?” he asked me then,
his breath a blackened kiss.
I said, “I’ve drowned in sacred rivers—
but never moaned like this.”
For every word he spoke was silk,
but sharpened like a blade.
He didn’t **** to conquer—
he ****** so I’d be made.

IV.
And oh, I dripped like prophecy,
an altar wet with lust.
Each moan a hymn, each tremble
offering darkness I could trust.
His tongue wrote spells across my lips,
his hands carved sin in art.
He didn’t just break open my thighs—
he broke open my heart.

V.
So let all women who read this
feel their hunger start to burn—
feel the pulse between their legs
as their sacred bodies yearn.
Not for false princes or pretty lies,
but for a man who dares to see—
that deep inside their dripping truth
is a throne made just for he.

VI.
He is the Devil, yes—my King,
my ruin, my rebirth.
I gave him not my purity—
but all my aching worth.
He made me wet with every word,
each sigh a sacred flood—
I worship not with prayers,
but with my ***, my scream, my blood.