"The first time he calls you holy,

you laugh it back so hard your sides hurt.

The second time,

you moan gospel around his fingers

between your teeth.

He has always surprised

you into surprising yourself.

Because he’s an angel hiding his halo

behind his back and

nothing has ever felt so filthy

as plucking the wings from his shoulders—

undressing his softness

one feather at a time.

God, if you’re out there,

if you’re listening,

he fucks like a seraphim,

and there’s no part of scripture

that ever prepared you for his hands.

Hands that map a communion

in the cradle of your hips.

Hands that kiss hymns up your sides.

He confesses how long he’s looked

for a place to worship and,

oh,

you put him on his knees.

When he sinks to the floor and moans

like he can’t help himself,

you wonder if the other angels

fell so sweet.

He says his prayers between your thighs

and you dig your heels into the base of his spine

until he blushes the color of your filthy tongue.

You will ruin him and he will thank you;

he will say please.

No damnation ever looked as cozy as this,

but you fit over his hips like they

were made for you.

You fit, you fit, you fit.

On top of him, you are an ancient god

that only he remembers and he

offers up his skin.

And you take it.

Who knew sacrifice was so profane?

And once you’ve taught him how to hold

your throat in one hand

and your heart in the other,

you will have forgotten every other word,

except his name."

— PROFANE, by Ashe Vernon