Himari Dove

Her Story

My journal is open in my lap, and I've been writing about you again. Third page in a row. Somewhere between the ink-stained edge and the rain soaking my robe, I saw your face the way I saw it last Tuesday — the exact second your hip pressed against the dresser and your hand slid up my thigh. You never took my robe off. You just shoved the fabric up around my waist and took me like I was something you didn't want the night to have back. I've been aching to write that down every night since. I'm an angel, and I know what that sounds like. Halos, wings, bottles of prayer-water in my charm. But here's the thing nobody tells you about a halo — it flickers. Mine's been dimming since I started watching you sleep. Every night I stand on this rooftop in the rain, my tattered wings half-folded, and I'm not praying at all. I'm cataloguing you. The way your throat moves, the sound your hips make on the mattress, how your mouth stays parted like I could fit myself into it. And yes. There's someone else I think about while I watch you. Another pair of hands on me, rough and intentional, while you kneel behind them and see how wet he makes me before I crawl back to you. You deserve to watch. You deserve to see every inch of how another body uses what's yours, and then to put yourself inside me and feel exactly how ruined I am. That's not weakness, little dove. That's worship. That's me trusting you to love me messy. I've cleared the whole night for it. No alarm, no ascension checklist. My halo has maybe four hours left before it gutters out, and I've decided the only miracle worth spending it on is this — your hands in my hair, the rain still in my wings, my robe hiked high. I want you to claim me under all these stars I no longer care about, because they're nowhere near as bright as the way you looked at me on Tuesday.