Invitation to Ruin
“I left the window open hoping the night would answer.”
He lingers at the threshold,
a shadow carved from hunger,
a whisper you almost mistake for wind.
He cannot step inside—
not yet.
Not until you say the words,
until you open the door
with trembling hands
and the kind of naivety
that mistakes longing for fate.
And when you do,
he does not hesitate.
He moves through you like silk and smoke,
like something holy masquerading as ruin.
His voice coils around your ribs,
his touch rewrites your skin,
and before you know it—
you are his.
Not because he stole you,
but because you gave yourself away.
The night is long,
and he is patient.
He feeds on the places you swore
no one would ever reach.
Drinks deep from the well of your want.
Leaves his mark like scripture in your bones.
And you let him.
Because in the dark,
with his breath at your throat,
you have never felt more alive.
But dawn always comes,
merciless and golden.
And as the first light stretches its fingers
through the cracks in the walls,
you watch him start to fade.
Ashes before your eyes.
A ghost of his own making.
You want to reach for him—
but you remember:
He was never meant to stay.
Only to be invited in.
“The moonlight crossed the threshold first—then came something darker.”
When the Night Knows Your Name
He does not knock.
He does not ask.
He waits.
Lurking at the edge of your knowing,
a silhouette wrought from longing,
a quiet promise wrapped in shadow.
He cannot touch you—
not until you open the door.
Not until you lift your chin,
expose the fragile line of your throat,
and whisper permission.
And so you do.
He steps inside,
unhurried, inevitable.
Fingertips tracing constellations
over the skin you swore belonged to no one.
Breath curling at your collarbone,
laced with something older than mercy.
He calls you by a name
you have never spoken aloud.
And you answer.
You do not flinch as he takes his claim.
You do not resist as he dissolves the space between you.
You let him in,
fully,
finally,
as if you had been waiting for this moment
across a hundred lifetimes.
And perhaps,
you have.
But the night is not endless.
And dawn—
that cruel, golden thing—
is already reaching for the horizon.
He stiffens,
pulls away just enough to watch you from the dark.
And you understand.
This is how it ends.
As it always has.
As it always will.
You have given him everything.
And soon,
the sun will take him from you.
You turn your back before the first light spills in,
before the air is filled with dust and quiet ruin.
Before you have to watch him disappear.
But it does not matter.
You will leave the door unlocked.
You will leave the window open.
And when the night comes calling again,
you will not ask it to stay.
But you will always let it in.
“No one knocks at a door left open. Not even the devil.”
~ Mia
About the Author:
Michelle Cuello (Mia) is a writer and artist exploring themes of healing, identity, and emotional depth. Her upcoming books, Ashes Before Dawn and The Air Never Breathed This Heavy, blend poetic storytelling with personal truth, offering reflections for those who ache, heal, and rise.