Bishop's Daughter
They said I was born into light.
Bathed in prophecy.
Raised in scripture, dressed in silence,
taught that holiness is a woman who never hungers.
But no one warned me what it felt like
to be touched with intention.
To be looked at like I wasn’t just a body,
but a place.
Somewhere he wanted to worship.
He came in the night.
Not loudly
just a knock on my soul I couldn’t unhear.
His voice wasn’t deep,
but it carried weight.
Like thunder dressed in silk.
His hands didn’t ask.
They discovered.
Like I was ancient
And he was the first man brave enough to read me properly.
He kissed me slow.
Like he already knew the ending,
but wanted to savor the beginning.
And when his lips touched mine,
They didn’t taste like sin.
They tasted like permission.
“I shouldn’t want this,” I whispered.
But my thighs answered first.
And when he finally slipped inside
No pain,
no shame,
just heat,
and a gasp that I did not recognize as mine
I understood.
They lied.
They said I’d feel regret.
They said I’d be ruined.
But in that moment,
with his breath tangled in my neck,
my body blooming around him
I didn’t feel ruined.
I felt real.
I felt found.
“Please don’t stop,” I said.
Because he moved like prayer.
Like he knew where the ache was deepest.
And when I dropped to my knees,
mouth open,
heart open
It wasn’t dirty.
It was devotion.
The night watched us.
It didn’t judge.
It just held our shadows close.
They still call me the Bishop’s daughter.
But they don’t know what I am now.
Not ruined.
Not ashamed.
Just... rewritten.
