Carry Her to the Elite
Carry her to the elite—
where even a rose must answer
for the consequences of her touch.
Her scent holds scripture.
I fall into the deep waters of her nearness,
drowning gently, willingly,
learning how breath can be taken without violence.
Climb with me.
Her hold shivers me into nothing,
a thin line between thought and longing,
between ever holding her
and never being worthy to.
Walls surround me—
I feel no love there.
But a kiss?
A kiss tangles me inside a mystery
I am afraid to solve.
Shape me—
yes, me.
Oh love, shape me,
for I am ashamed to love thee
and still I do.
Call me, oh love.
I run away, barricading my name,
hiding in silence.
Tell me it is you,
so I can finally speak the truth aloud.
Compliment my touch, oh love.
Teach me what God wants me to feel,
not what I want to steal.
Is she the one who needs me—
or the one who will undo me?
Carry me, oh love, to that elite place
where intention is weighed heavier than desire.
Stop me if I am crossing—
for some lines are deadly when ignored
but necessary once they are loved.
Erase all of you in birth,
then grow again,
and fall in love with me forever—
not as you were,
but as we are becoming.
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— A note from Xhale
This poem lingers in the hush around wanting what you’re told to refuse, and the shame of craving a touch that might unmake you. In these lines I’m tracing how devotion can feel like both trespass and shelter, a dangerous wish to be remade by someone whose nearness blurs the border between consent and surrender.
Author’s Note This piece lives in that uneasy threshold where wanting her feels like both prayer and trespass, where the body kneels even as it burns. I wrote it to sit with the frightening tenderness of loving someone so fiercely that the longing feels sacred, and the reverence almost incriminating.
