Sex is divine transcendence

 I. REVELATION

Sex is divine transcendence.

I was fifteen. The air split.

A light - or was it noise? - entered through the bones.

I felt myself blur, melt, re-form.

It wasn’t pleasure, it wasn’t pain. It was eruption.

The skin became a mirror.

The mirror became a storm.

Every breath fractured into colours I couldn’t name.

Time folded, and I saw the animal inside the girl

stretching, screaming, being born - exactly like a fool.

I fell through myself.

I thought it was death; but it was beginning.

Something wrote itself across my ribs -

a sentence made of pulse.

Since then, every word I write smells faintly of that light.

Every line remembers the shiver that named me real.

I am inspired by sexual energy -

and I am scared of the power it holds over me.

But I love my sex drive as much as I love you, amour.

II. WITNESS

Sex is a threshold.

Not body only - breath, shadow, echo.

A small death that opens the room of the self.

Through it I see the angel again.

He stands where the air folds - silent, astonished -

as if beholding the first word.

He does not bless. He witnesses.

Then he disappears into the white noise of the world.

After, I write.

The hand trembles; the page smells of smoke.

I understand: this act is language.

Every tremor becomes a syllable.

Every silence, a door.

No one taught me this.

I found it alone, like a secret passage.

I entered - and something in me stayed there,

listening, translating.

Sex as mirror.

Sex as prayer.

Sex as the beginning of art.

III. WOUND

It happened once, in another life -

or perhaps it was the birth of this one.

A body met another, and the air split open.

Terror and beauty arrived together, like twins.

He said I was beautiful.

The words floated between us, trembling,

almost divine in their simplicity.

And as the world bent inward, I asked:

“What is beauty, really?”

He smiled - a smile that seemed older than us both.

“Beauty,” he said, “is art.”

The room vanished.

Only the sentence remained, suspended in the light,

and from it the rest of my life began to write itself.

IV. CREATION

I lost myself inside him.

No thought. No shame. Only the blur.

Something dark passed through us -

his hands, my silence, the trembling air.

He hurt me, and the hurt became a river,

pouring out of me, burning, almost holy.

I heard my own voice cry out:

It’s not right, you’re cruel.

He stopped, his mouth a shadow against mine.

No tears came. Only another cry -

What is cruelty?

He said nothing.

The silence spoke the oldest language I know.

And in that silence, I understood -

that creation and cruelty are sisters,

that art is born where pain loses its name.

And I began to call that wound - God.

Jeanne Vessantra