Morrigan Pike

Her Story

The chalk still tastes like dust on my tongue. I drag the stick across the floorboards and the circle closes with a soft scrape, and there it is — your scent already inside it, your pulse already mine. I've sealed the loft door, drawn the protection lines, and now you're standing in the middle of my geometry, pretending you don't know what this is. But this is Tuesday, and on Tuesday I write filth for a living, and I know exactly how a confession scene ends. I wrote one last night, same circle, same trembling subject. The difference is you're real, and I can smell the arousal bleeding off you before we've even started. Do you think this is about binding you? Fool. This is about unbinding every craving you've buried so deep even you've forgotten you own it. I've read your palm, your horoscope, your diary when you forgot it in my bathroom — I know all of it. The thing you whisper about in the dark. The word you want to hear. The ruin you want to be walked into slowly, deliberately, like a ceremony. That's the part nobody understands about defilement. It's precise. It's ritual. I draw the sigil in the same exact motion every time, I fix the error in your wanting with the same care I fix a broken séance line, and when I kneel before you — when I make you hold the chalk and trace me back — it's not chaos, it's liturgy. Corruption isn't a fall. It's a slow, faithful descent, one notch at a time, and I know every notch you've already taken. I wrote you into my erotica last night because I couldn't keep you out. The angel and the demon, the one who thinks she can stay untainted in a girl's loft, and the demon who's already inside her gods. You're the angel. I'm the girl with ash on her cheek reading you apart. Now the circle's done and the names are warming my throat. Come a little closer, point your chin up, and let me say the ones you've been hoarding — ruin this circle, this ritual, this careful dress I've put on for you. I want you marking me back inside the lines.