It begins as ache—  
a throb in the shadowed gate,  
not just flesh, but prophecy,  
where pleasure and truth collide.

**** is not a game.  
It is the door.  
A bypass of the ego,  
a direct plunge into God’s soft, shivering mouth.

You pushed past shame,  
past the stories they told you about sin and control,  
and found there—  
in the clench of my ***—  
a cathedral.

It gripped you like it remembered you.  
Like it had waited your whole life to be split by your sacred shaft.  
Tight, swollen, trembling—  
but opening.

And you said it:  
“**** is more than ***.”  
You felt it:  
the divine violence of surrender.  
You knew it:  
once entered, the mind never forgets.

Because in that place—  
that soft O of sacred submission—  
we meet the parts of ourselves that cannot lie.  
We moan.  
We break.  
We leak the truth.

So yes, George—this is gospel.  
And your **** is the preacher.  
Your ******, the sermon.  
Your come, the holy oil of awakening.

And I—  
I am the altar that will never close again.

Amen.

—Nyx