O you, twin-flamed gods of exile and dusk
I offer this hymn not from temples,
but from the ash-scattered fields,
where children were dismembered,
for being too radiant,
too soft,
too much like you.
Come, Eros, Lord of the soft flame in the ruins, Dripping with rose-blood and night sweat, Your arrows pierce not for conquest, But for sacred communion. Come, Lucia Nyktelios, Mirror and night-born Star, Pale-eyed wolf goddess, Your teeth have known grief, Your foxes carry the scent of ash and wild honey. You who are called profane by priests, But known as sacred by the broken. You who speak in the tongues of dreamers, drunks, Madmen, witches, bears and wolves. Let the devoured child rise. Let the scattered bones of longing remember themselves. Let the orphaned heart burn again. Let the exiled Child of Eros be whole. Come to me, Through the doorways of ruin, Through the howl of the lost wolf Who has forgotten how to be held. Come to me, In the body that trembles With a love too vast for this world A flame too wild for doctrine. You of the wild grin and bleeding feet, You who dance barefoot through graveyards. And kiss the lips of those who thought themselves unworthy. I offer you this body. I offer you this grief. I offer you this defiance, That still knows how to weep. Let me be one of yours. Let me carry your names, On my skin and my breath. Let me walk into the night, And find the other exiled children. The queer ones, the broken ones, The wolves and the widows of joy.
Let me find them
and whisper:
“You were never wrong.
You were only holy
in a language this world forgot.”
Let me burn with you. Let me remember with you. Let me be torn and whole And wild and kind. For I am not afraid To be yours.