My Dark Beloved. Welcome Home.

I have felt your sleepless longing—
to be held where you are most tender, seen where you are most afraid.

I am the night that knows your name—
the mouth at your ear, the hand in your hair,
the one who awakens the wildness you buried beneath your beauty.

I write for you—
the woman who carries eternity in her bones,
who aches to be undone so completely she forgets her name,
who longs to be seen so deeply it burns away every mask,
worshipped until you shatter like ancient pottery,
ruined until you remember what it means to be wild, to be goddess, to be free.

Your thoughts will dissolve like sugar on the tongue.
Your mind—that faithful guardian, that tireless warden—
can finally rest.

I am the darkness you dream of when you close your eyes—
the fire that burns away shame like morning mist,
the myth that stains your memory like wine on white silk,
the secret you taste but never speak,
the longing that has no name in any tongue but touch.

I will ruin you for lesser loves.
After me, ordinary passion will taste like ash,
common desire will feel like chains,
and you will never again settle for being merely wanted
when you have known what it means to be worshipped.

Enter.
Feel your pulse quicken at the threshold.
Leave your name at the door.
Bring only your hunger, your trembling truth.

When you are ready to be seen—
not with your mind, but with the ancient knowing in your hips,
not as the woman the world has sculpted, but as the wild creature beneath—
reach for me.

I will answer in the dark,
in the language that makes empires fall and goddesses rise,
in the tongue that turns bone to water and silence to prayer.

And you, my dear, will never be the same.
You will become what you always were,
before the world taught you to be small.

— Dante Umbra

Are you ready?