Let Her Destroy You
Let Her Destroy You
Love isn't about salvation, but about finding the shipwreck,
the woman who ravages you is a storm that builds ruins.
Let her destroy you—destruction is the only way to be whole,
your fragments will dance more beautifully than you ever danced.
She comes with demolition hands and architect's gazes,
builds your cathedral from your ashes, on your ashes, for your ashes.
Ravaging is higher order—her chaos is sacred geometry,
and you are the clay that must be shattered to become a statue.
Seek the woman who unties the knots in your soul with her teeth,
who murmurs apocalyptic lullabies to you at serene midnight.
Her destruction is an act of love like an inverted prayer,
God creates from nothing, she creates nothingness from you—more sacred.
Let her break your ribs like doors to interior gardens,
where poisonous flowers grow with the scent of eternity in decay.
Melancholy is just joy that has realized the truth,
and the truth is that love kills you to birth you again—dead.
She is the lumberjack-woman in your forest of thoughts,
felling everything you built with the care of a man who fears life.
Her ravaging is caress—she rearranges your organs in another order,
heart in head, brain in chest, and you breathe with her memories.
Psychedelic is the word for seeing things as they truly are:
love isn't embrace, it's explosion, it's supernova in slow motion.
The woman who destroys you isn't enemy, she's sculptor with dynamite,
and you are the marble screaming: "Harder! I still look like myself!"
Let her ravage you until you become a stranger to yourself,
until you no longer know where she begins and where you ended long ago.
Destruction is act of love—only what loves you can take you apart,
and only what takes you apart can show you what you were before being something.
She enters your life like a revolution in a sleeping temple,
overturns the altars, breaks the idols, dances on your holy lies.
Magic is just the name we give to what we don't understand yet,
and you will never understand how your destruction made you free.
Melancholy comes after—when you understand you want to be destroyed again,
that nothing is more complete than the unfulfillment that makes you whole.
Love is about finding the woman who ravages you perfectly,
and letting her destroy you until you become someone worth rebuilding.
The final paradox, she loves you only when she demolishes you,
and you love her only when you apologize for still existing.
The search doesn't end—she is the woman you're always seeking,
even when she holds you in her arms and dismembers you with care.
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