They call her their saint. Their mouths taste her name like sugar, like blood. They press their prayers into her palms, all jagged edges and trembling hands.
“I miss her.”
“I don’t want to go home.”
“I don’t know who I am without him.”
They come to her—soft-eyed and hollow, smelling of cigarette ash and cheap perfume—each hungrier than the last. She lets them spill open, lets them offer up the ugliest parts of themselves because someone has to. They call her their savior. Their safety. And it is easier to be needed than to be nothing at all.
She learns quickly: it is easy to be adored when you give people what they want. And what they want is simple. A place to belong. Someone to touch their hair and tell them they are good, that their hunger is not a sin. She gathers them like broken-winged birds, lets them lay their heads in her lap.
At night, they curl around her like vines. They say, “I love you,” in voices that sound like apologies. They want her to be soft. They want her to be unbreakable. She lets them press their fears into the curve of her neck, their want curling under her ribs. They never ask if she has room left.
She doesn’t know how to say no, so she opens herself wider, hoping to swallow it all. She likes the weight of them. The warmth. Their fingers twist in the hem of her shirt like she’s something holy, and maybe she is. Maybe this is the closest thing to heaven any of them will ever touch.
But adoration is a hungry thing. They want pieces of her. Little by little, she gives herself away. Her time. Her body. Her heart, peeled raw. They call her when they need something. A ride, a place to hide, someone to kiss when the world gets too sharp around the edges. She lets them crawl into her lap and press their mouths to her skin. They say things they wouldn’t dare speak in daylight. It never means anything. Or maybe it means everything. She can never really tell the difference anymore.
Sometimes she wishes they would leave her alone. Let her be nothing. Let her rot in peace. But then she remembers the way they look at her, wide-eyed and desperate, like she’s the last light before everything goes dark. She can’t let that go. She doesn’t know who she is without it.
Still, she lets them come. Lets them take. What else would she do with all this love if not pour it out like water? If she stops, they might leave. And who will she be without their wanting? Just a girl. Just a body.
One day, she will burn herself down and no one will notice until the smoke fills their lungs. But for now, she stays. They call her a miracle and she believes them. It is easier that way.
She smiles, strokes their hair, whispers their names like prayers. It is the closest thing to love she has ever known.
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