This is the death of dogma

For seven years I guarded something holy. I do not repent. But walls rose until faith resembled fear, and love the command to preserve it

Seven witches entered beneath a bleach-white crown: seven seals, seven planets cast from orbit. Black gowns opened; heavy breasts rose from silk. Mouths eclipsed mouths. Hands vanished into hair and heat. Dancing without permission, touched without doctrine, answerable only to Mother Moon and the tides beneath their skin

On the seventh full moon of the seventh year, I saw you among them.

Then you struck the match

I remained bound to the stake - Burning. Calm. Watching. Ready.

You danced outside the shape I had worshipped. Your emancipation came tasting other mouths, locking doors, raising a world beneath your own name. You chose your body, your hunger, your future. You became less reachable, more real. The more you belonged to yourself, the more violently I wanted you

The pyre climbed my habit and devoured every imagined right: to know, to guard, to call nearness proof, to sleep beside you.

It burned my right to decide

I thought growth meant carrying more without collapse. The stake taught me otherwise: let the self fall, discover what’s left beyond. But The fire did not return me. It forged someone the old world had no language for. When the ropes burned through, the bound person no longer existed

At Pentecost, flame did not grant me death. It burned borrowed language from my mouth. The habit fell. The structure collapsed. Everything false became ash - I did not.

When the sabbath ended, mouths parted and gowns fell still. Dawn found me bare beneath a moon inhaling smoke, white ash across my skin, each cinder a fallen star

Beneath seven black moons, I would burn alive for you again. Not for the promise, the years, or whatever waits beyond them, but because the fire taught me the difference between losing you and seeing you

When the smoke cleared, I’d meet you naked in the ashes, where neither of us must kneel. You unowned. I unbound. 

No dogma left between us. No Altar. No promise. Only what the flames could neither command into existence nor burn away.

Love