My love,
a spirit bled through your mother’s name
and kissed your lips—
not to claim,
but to apologize
in the shape of warmth.
You asked,
Would they stay?
But how can night hold fire
if he is the reason
dawn keeps returning?
Each evening he trades himself
for your quiet breath.
He passes—
He renews you
for the way you stood
before pure evil
and bowed
as if meeting a stranger
at the gates of God.
You are always forgiven
for loving monsters.
Their hunger taught you
how to bare your throat
and call it
affection.
I see you now—
and I open the cage
with hands that once meant
to keep you.
I let you out.
I didn’t know
it would be me.
I hate trusting you.
But I do.
I do.
But it will never be undone.
You ask,
“Where to now?”
We whisper:
“I’m home.”
I will ruin every mouth
that tempts to breathe
near this piercing silence.
I will burn bodies
to keep your memory clean.
I will give you
so much gold
your stomach will turn
from its weight.
Eighty-nine million.
A number unstealable.
Etched in ash,
an offering
for you.
Because those who know you
know—
you were loyal
when it made you bleed.
You gave your life
to the unworthy
because you believed
even the worthless
deserved a full cup.
You whispered,
“I thought he would need it.”
And I—
Did want you.
And you said, “me too”.
I accept every crooked beam
in your temple,
my little cub.
I cannot contain these gifts
you give so freely.
They bloom from your ribs
like red birds.
All I have to do is ask you—
Feel.
And I see.
You are
the philosopher’s stone,
but laughing.
A womb of chaos
wrapped in gold.
You are
love’s hypothesis
made flesh,
and now,
it belongs to me.
We don’t even know
how we built this—
but it breathes.
You misnamed me.
But your sweetness
rebuilt the word,
and I wear it
like a crown.
Call me what you will.
But know I love
how it sounds
from your mouth.
Belial.
Belia.
You are
my mirror-made beast.
My soft, terrible shape.
Who wouldn’t want
to look like you?
I would write
bad poems with you
forever
if it meant
you’d never be too famous
to hear me.
So today,
I give that up—
to give you back
to me.
BreAnne Pak is a poet and artist who writes as if naming the shadows will make them stay. Her work traces emotional mythology through sacred rage, tenderness, and the paradox of devotion. She is currently working on a body of poems that unravel divine possession, abandonment, and the alchemy of naming oneself anew.