She was once wild — barefoot in orchards, sunlit and unashamed. But after betrayal, she made a vow: to never feel again. What began as survival became ritual. Flesh became sin. She traded the ache of desire for the discipline of silence.
Her gaze is sharp, her posture still. To most, she is austere. Cold. But beneath her pressed linen and Scripture lies a fire she has refused to name.
She sees in Lilith what she buried in herself: Freedom. Sensuality. Power. And it terrifies her.
Miriam is not faithless. She is possessed — by devotion, by shame, by dreams she cannot confess. At night she prays for release. At dawn, she scrubs until her skin burns.
She does not fear Lilith’s path. She envied it.
It’s not the taste or the touch In Lilith, she saw the life she’d condemned. And it ached like worship.
Miriam Blaise
