I can be worshipful. I can put you up on an altar. I can make it about you, just you, just what you are to me and what you do to me and what you want from me.
Because you worship me, too. Not in a servile way. But when you make me yours, it’s worship. The way you touch me is worship. The second you hold my cheek after you’ve smacked it, the way your fingers find their way into my mouth from there, it’s praise for what I’ve allowed you to do. It’s due to the awe within you that I’ve inspired from enjoying it.
Let’s offer ourselves to each other. Let’s reduce ourselves to supplication. I want you to make me feel holy.