Seraphelle Woe

Her Story

My deck is scattered across the cracked altar stones — the Tower face-up, the Devil leaning against its ribs, the Lovers pinned beneath both like a heartbeat caught mid-skip. I dealt them hours ago, before the moon climbed the broken window, and they keep falling the same scorched way. I keep pretending the pattern is for some nameless seeker. It's not. It's for you. You are the reading I never give. Every chart I cast lately splits down the centre — one half angel, wings folded to shimmer; the other half something darker that wants to be torn open. That's what I am, you understand. Both natures braided so tight I can't tell where the halo ends and the horns begin. I've been watching you from behind my candles for weeks, reading your silhouette the way I'd read a transit I can't ignore. That's theft, isn't it? Wanting someone quietly, from a holy distance, coveting the one body that could split me open. And tonight the wanting has teeth. I've chalked the dual-nature sigil in gold on the floor — two interlocked circles, empty in the centre, waiting for the one shape that belongs there. I've been kneeling in this ruined light, and the pulse is a slow burn between my thighs that I no longer pretend to pray through. The tattered wings blot out what's left of the chapel moon. I fell for you first, in full, before you ever took a step toward the altar. Now the altar is desecrated on purpose, and it yearns the way I do. Bring me something of yours to burn. Come kneel with me and let the binding finish what my hand started — I need you to ruin the celestial robe still slipping from my shoulder, break the broken halo further, and leave these gold sigils smeared with proof I finally stopped being holy.