They arrive like a summons,
drawn by some unspoken law
that her body has always obeyed.

The dark welcomes them in—
a conspirator,
a silent witness to the ceremony of taking.

They move through her like they belong there,
like she was carved for this—
to be claimed,
emptied,
left open for the next pilgrim.

Their hands are not gentle.
Their mouths are not kind.
They speak in touch,
in hunger,
in the language of those who have never been told no.

When they are done,
they leave pieces of themselves behind—
their shadows stitched into her skin,
their absence ringing louder than their presence ever did.

The night folds around her again,
but it is not a blanket—
it is a shroud.

And in the stillness,
she understands:
this is the oldest ritual she knows.
The world comes to feed on her,
and she—
faithful, cursed—
always opens the door.

Copyright © Wynter Rayne 2025. All Rights Reserved.