The night is a wound that whispers you,
a bleeding seam between breath and flame.
Even the sea recoils from the truth,
that I still moan your unholy name.

Your shadow crawls beneath my skin,
a fever carved by want and woe.
The ghosts you left still draw me in,
their hands like yours-too cold, too slow.

I've prayed to gods that never cared,
I've kissed their altars, split and raw.
But none could match the way you stared-
that look that turned my faith to flaw.

The Hellbound Mistress drifts through smoke,
her sails stitched tight with guilt and lust.
Each mast, a promise I once broke,
each wave, a hymn to ruined trust.

If I burn, then let it be
in the furnace of your eyes-
where angels choke on blasphemy,
and truth and torment intertwine.

I am your Queen, still bound, undone,
with ashes breathing on my tongue.

Penned by my hand on the 11th of Sarapin, in the year 989 AF.