My religion

I kneel,
not in penance,
but in prayer—
to him.

He is the altar.
The offering.
The sacred text
I was born to recite
with trembling hands.

I touch him
like ritual.
Slow.
Intentional.
Each breath
a vow.

He answers
with reverent hunger,
pulling devotion
from the base of my spine,
until I forget
every god
but him.

His mouth
is a psalm I swallow.
His hips,
a sermon I rise to meet.

I am baptized
in sweat and want.
Laid bare
on linens
that know our names.

And when the shudder comes—
when my body breaks
into hallelujahs—
I don’t need salvation.

Only this.

Only him.

Only the holy fire
he sets alight
inside me.

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