Her touch is fire, her silence—deep, where dreams dissolve and cherubim sleep. She loves like death with no escape, with the type of kiss that molds and shapes. Beneath her skin, the scorpions stir, not to strike but to honor her. For in her wounds, she discovered a crown, and though she falls, she won’t stay down. Some see her as the end of things, a final breath, a poisonous sting. But if you dare to truly see—you’ll learn she’s both grave and key.