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January 18, 2016

Lay Yourself Upon My Altar.

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I shall leave the bed as she left it; unmade and disrupted,
With the sheets tangled, so that the form of her body
Will remain imprinted beside mine.
Until tomorrow, I shall not go to the bath, I shall wear no garments
And I shall not comb my hair, lest I efface her caresses. ~ Pierre Louys, Les Chansons de Bilitis

 

Lay yourself upon my altar.

Leave your garments and your modesty scattered shamelessly on the floor.

I have made a fire from Oak and Rowan, it will warm you with its glow.

I’ve prepared my oils and potions, there is nothing for you to fear. Say you’re willing, say I surrender.

Say the words I’ve taught you to say.

Let me roam you like a lioness, let me prowl with intent—you, my sun drenched, luxurious savanna…oh my love, I am hungry. I can taste the measure of your soul.

They have told you to be wary, that I’m wicked, that my ways are dark and lead to sin. And yet you stood willing at my doorstep, pride in hand, lust like coal-fire spilling from your raven eyes.

I’ve allowed you things that I allow no other—to touch my magic, my witch’s tools. You’ve been free to inspect my jars of herbs and roots and dragon’s blood. You’ve heard my chanting, you’re danced by my fire; you have watched me consult the moon and the stars. You have kept me safe from the others, and for this, my love, I owe you my life.

So won’t you lie here on my altar, watch me comb the braid from my hair, watch me loosen the ties of my bodice, allow me pour you a cup of honey wine.

Don’t you worry, you must know this…

I am wicked but I’m kind.
I am solitary but I’m not alone.
I am heaven but I’m hell-fire.
I am flesh and blood and young, but forever is in my bones.

I am nothing that you should play with if you wish to remain unchanged.

For the forest has been my mother.
The sea has been my cradle.
The wolves have been my brothers.
The wind has been my guide.
Venus has been my mistress.
Fire has been my solace.
Magic has been my home.

I’ve seen peace and I’ve seen war, I’ve been run down, I’ve been burned, I’ve been saint and mother and whore, and now I’m the goddess who wants her reward.

So while the fire burns brightly, while mid-day turns to dusk, while our supper rises fragrant, let me taste your lips on mine.

Darling you are ever my faithful warrior, the man whose spoken word I trust, the one who never questions the voices that guide my mystic’s life. You may not understand my journeys to the Underworld, nor the incantations that fuel my spells, but I’ll let you into my most sacred space, because you’re a man with a clear and honest heart.

So drink from the well of my intuition. Sip from the chalice that is more precious than gold.

Be the sacrifice to my womanhood, on my altar, by my fire.

Now my hair is spilling wild and my skin is soft with oils, now my breasts are at your fingertips, now my legs are weak with desire.

You, so brutal when you protect me, are now so vulnerable stretched out on my sheets; on my altar, by my fire, muscle and strength, are mine to own.

Touch me with the hands that feed me, touch me anywhere you like, take my screams, my dreams—my longings.

I will be your Jezebel.

 

 

 

More awesome from Monika:

To the Men We Love Who F*ck Us Breathless. {Adult}

13 Strategies to Simplify Your Life.

 

Author: Monika Carless

Editor: Renée Picard

Image: Bonsai Tree at Flickr

 

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