She wore chaos like a second skin—
a bloom of bruises beneath lace and grin,
the ache of want etched deep in bone,
too much, too loud, too wild alone.
A tempest dressed in trembling sin.
No cage could hold her twisted art,
the way she wept with broken grace,
how silence curled against her heart
and screamed beneath her porcelain face.
She bled in colors no one knew.
Until he came,
not with roses or redemption—
but rope,
and rules,
and reverence.
He named each fracture sacred ground,
marked her flesh like holy scripture,
read her pain in moans and gasps,
and held the storm until it whispered.
In his hands she unraveled—
not to vanish, but to become.
Each strike a syllable of truth,
each bruise a verse in a poem
only they could speak.
He did not save her—
he witnessed her.
He did not tame her—
he trusted her fury to bloom.
And in that dungeon lit by shadow,
she found a cathedral.
Her knees to the concrete,
his voice the altar bell,
his touch the gospel she longed to believe.
To the world,
she was ruin.
To him,
a ruin worth worshiping.
She is a beautiful disaster,
and he, the storm who knelt to meet her.