There are those who long to surrender,
not for pleasure alone,
but for the sacred undoing that precedes becoming.

But when one has already known destruction—
not the kind that clears the way,
but the kind that leaves ruins—
even the softest invitation to let go
can feel like a threat.

She stands at the threshold,
where creation hums quietly beneath the surface,
but the memory of collapse is still alive in her bones.

To open again,
to allow the self to dissolve once more,
would require a faith deeper than words—
the kind born not from forgetting,
but from surviving.

And so she waits,
not because she is unwilling,
but because she knows:
true surrender must be met.
Gently. Clearly. Without shadow.

For even in her stillness,
she is listening
for the moment when destruction becomes
not an end—
but a beginning