✨Holy War✨
It was cold that day.
Not just the kind of cold that crept through the trees, but the kind that made the air feel watched.
We were camped beside the river—tailgate open, the mountain rising just beyond the water.
I was standing there, stirring eggs and frying bacon
He was behind me, stoking the flames like it was the only thing he knew how to do.
And then I felt it.
That invisible thread across the back of my neck.
Not wind.
Not fear.
Something else.
Something that wasn’t him and wasn’t me.
I didn’t turn around.
I didn’t scream.
I just whispered.
“You don’t own me.
You have no dominion here.
And you don’t own him either.
He is not yours.
He is a child of God.
I command you to leave.”
I kept stirring. Kept grounding. Kept praying.
And then I heard him—soft, shaken.
“Can you come here for a second?”
I turned. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t feel good, all of a sudden.”
I pulled the food off the heat, walked to him, sat on his lap like I always did when he was tired or touch-starved.
I laid my head against his shoulder, breathing calm into him.
And I whispered again, not for him—but for what was listening:
“You don’t own him.
You have no dominion here.
Leave.”
Immediately… He jolted.
“Get up. Get up. I think I’m about to be sick—”
He ran behind the trees, doubled over in the brush.
Like something inside him couldn’t hold itself any longer.
Like something I had challenged couldn’t stand to stay.
⸻
We didn’t stay camp another night.
He could not hold anything down.
He couldn’t hike or pretend.
So we packed up & checked into a hotel,
just to warm up. Just to rest.
Or so I thought.
Whatever had been shaken loose by my words in the woods— it came back.
And this time, it didn’t want deliverance.
It wanted control.
Revenge.
That night wasn’t intimacy.
It was violence.
Love wasn’t made—
It made war.
With it’s fists against my skin.
With bruises blooming across my chest like warnings.
With a grip around my throat that wasn’t just about pressure— but possession.
I didn’t scream.
I dissociated.
Because my spirit had seen enough.
I saw something— not with my eyes, but with the part of me that knows when a room is no longer just a room.
Something climbed into him.
Something old.
And it wasn’t there to hold.
It was there to watch.
To feed.
To humiliate the sacred.
To break my spirit.
And I remember thinking afterward,
as I lay in silence next to a man whose face
I no longer recognized:
Women are sacred.
Women are holy.
Women are the portals through which life, spirit, and soul pass into this world.
And I just let a desecrated temple into mine.
⸻
I used to think it was just connection.
Now I know it’s contract.
An invitation.
A ritual.
A gate.
And not every man who enters is alone.
Sometimes he brings legions.
Sometimes he brings hunger that isn’t even his.
Sometimes he comes not to worship—
but to conquer the very thing that could make him whole.
And I wonder now…
If this is what happened to Lilith.