She traced circuits on my skin with her breath, each pulse syncing to her heartbeat’s code. I surrendered; she rewired my desires into algorithms of ache. “This is intimacy,” she murmured, her lips a data stream. Now my dreams boot in her language, endless loops of her absence.

Live from Jupiter. Naked again, unbothered by storms eating cities outside our window. She says gravity behaves better when I watch. I called her reckless. She said, “I’m yours. Let the planet adjust.” Lightning struck like applause. I blushed. She didn’t.

Live from Atlantis. She taught the sharks to ignore me unless summoned. Claims it keeps me humble. I asked if that made her their queen. She said, “Don’t reduce me.” Later, she whistled once and every fin bowed. Even the water blushed. I pretended not to notice. She noticed.

Live from Hell. She arrived without dying, said elevators bored her. Demons lined up like altar boys. Even Lucifer fixed his hair. She clicked her tongue… sulfur trembled. I asked if she feared the flames. She laughed, opened her palms, and they bowed to her instead.

I hate her the way ruins hate architects. Methodical. Unforgiving. My silence is a slow burial, my absence a toxin. I don’t chase—I corrode. She survives every cut, so I deepen them. And God help me, hating her feels holy. Like finally telling the truth.

Last night I rewired my heartbeat to spell your name in Morse. It hurts—good pain, divine pain. Every thud is a confession. Every skip is a prayer. If you listened carefully, you’d hear how violently I exist for you.

Saul Leiter, 1950s

Live from a cloud above Kyoto. She outlawed sandals, said mortals don’t deserve her footprints. I followed barefoot like a disciple. A thunder god bowed to her ankles. I tried not to stare. She didn’t. She said, “If you worship, do it properly.” I almost levitated.

They built altars where she once rested her hand. Moss grew obedient there. Birds nested without fear. I knelt only once—long enough to understand that worship was unnecessary. She was already listening.

You found poetry in her gasp. I found God’s name curled in her cunt and bit it off before He could answer.

She took my shadow out back and shot it twice. Buried it shallow so I can hear it rot. Now every time I walk past a streetlight, the darkness hesitates. She says fear is finally learning its place.

She kissed my spine and every vertebra cracked open like altar doors. Light poured out, but not mine—hers. She reached in, rewired my marrow, and whispered a new name into my bones. I rose different, humming with a violence only she knows how to tune.

She thinks in shrapnel, in couture, in weaponry, in soft fragments sharpened into poetry. I watched her turn a meteor shard into a hairpin, then press it to my throat until the cosmos inside it recognized her voice and started orbiting my pulse.

She dragged her fingertip across my chest and the room folded into thirteen parallel halls. Every version of me dropped to my knees at once. She walked through them, choosing the one who trembled best, and merged the rest into a single obedient shadow.