Note: This post contains sensual content. It’s tender and intimate, not graphic, but may not be for everyone.

Unwinding doesn’t always mean drinking herbal tea or watching Netflix. It could be about reconnecting with yourself, through your body and the presence of others.

I wrote this to examine what it means to let go of the day physically as much as emotionally. Not everyone discusses how sex may be therapeutic, grounding, or even spiritual. But it is for me.

This is an honest and vulnerable piece. I don’t believe we should hide our tenderness or yearning. Sometimes what heals us the most is the part that we’re afraid to say out loud.

She washed the day off her skin—
rose oil, lavender salts,
tepid water,
with a man behind her
who didn’t speak,
semi hard
against the curve of her spine.

She leaned back,
exhaled her weariness
mingled with steam rose like ghosts
from the bath they shared.
He shampooed her,
untangled the strands,
while she, soaping his creases
like cupping rain-warmed petals
in her palms.

She read later,
naked beneath the sheets,
the book trembling slightly
in her hands
as his finger skimmed
the back of her knee.

He asked about her day,
she told him in curses and laughter.
She wrote about it too—
in smeared writing,
pages sticking together
like sweaty thighs.

He watched her,
a repentant sinner
at a communion
he’d waited all week to taste.
She looked into his eyes,
offered her invitation
to slit open her core,
and slid inside her mess.

She was the scripture
he devoured,
worshipped with tongue and blasphemy.
Broken hymns
tumbled from their lips.
Her body a confessional booth—
each cry, a hidden truth.

After,
he was a punctuation
that curled about her,
there was never a period,
only dashes
waiting for words.

She didn’t sleep.
She exposed.
Soft.
Ravaged.
Holy.

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