The Cyrenaian Hedonic church

Enter the room where breath thickens,
but do not ask (it ruins the game) for
light.

It stalks you,
slow, deliberate,
a lover in the dark (who knows
exactly where your pulse hides).

You feel it, don’t you?
That tremor (just
beneath the skin), the one that
wants to run (but
doesn’t).

The body knows before the mind does, inventing movements in the corners of your eyes.

The body al(l)ways knows.

This is not cruelty.
This is communion.
That trembling beneith
your skin (and your
skin) an offering.

The (mask slips on
and the) air thins.
Every inhale becomes (a secret).
Every exhale a risk.
Every sound is permission.

Fear is the pressure before the storm,
the slick heat (between want
and surrender).
It is the ache of not knowing
(when the next touch will come, or if it will soothe or sear).

You cannot banish it,
so kneel to it.
Your shivers give meaning to moans.

Let it chase you through the corridors we created.
Let it corner you, panting, undone.
Let it press against you
until the only thing you hear is your own quickened pulse (that keeps the knife
from mercy).

It is only then, when it truly takes you,
when fear’s hand grips your throat
and resistance freezes like your blood,
that devotion begins.

You will (not) be safe here.
You will (finally) be alive.

AMEN