I Come To You in Silk

A solo ritual for the quiet horror of becoming

You remember being a girl. Or a thing that once resembled one. The walls here sigh like old silk. Something breathes behind the mirror. And he—He—is waiting.

The moths come at night, soft and certain, with wings like secrets and mouths like needles. They do not bite. They unmake. They leave kisses on your wrists that bloom into empty places. You wake lighter.

This is not a game, not really. It is a procession. A thirteen-night descent into the cathedral of your own undoing. You will name yourself. You will forget those names. You will stitch your skin into a story that doesn’t belong to you.

You may escape. You may become. Or you may be married to something vast and winged and watching.

The Moth-King is very patient.

He knows how long it takes for a body to forget it had bones.