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I promise you,
I will fuck your mind clean.
You will forget
every woman
your hands have ever touched
before me.

"Ahh," my Wolf said, "crowds terrify women like you. All that noise, all that desperate begging to be seen. They clap for the shallow because they're afraid of the real. And women like you can't stand that - you're too raw, too deep, too goddamn honest. So they call you cold, pretend you don't matter. Fuck them. If you ever stepped into their ring you couldn't play the act anyways - you'd rip their mediocre illusion apart and dance while the whole fucking circus burns."

Some women are born
with dust from ancient temples
impacted in their lungs.

They do not need initiations or titles.
They are walking rituals.

They hum lullabies older than scripture,
weave spells through silence,
and walk with dreams
from lifetimes they've never lived.

But do not call it coincidence.

The ones who remember are rising.
And they do not need permission.

tell her there are goddesses in her bones
and tales of bloody triumph in her skin
and that blackness
is not a sin;

it's a legacy.

Oh, Honey
I rose up
from the dead
since I was an infant.
I do it all
the fucking time.

there's something about
a woman with a loud mind
that sits in silence, smiling,
knowing she can crush you
with only the
truth

I never cared about being alone.
I have been alone my whole life.
No one ever stayed long enough
to notice when I disappear.
I got used to being in a room full
of people but never really being seen.
Being alone is my comfort.
It became a place where nothing could hurt me
because nothing was ever close enough.
I don't need anyone,
I don't have to explain myself.
I keep my walls high,
and no one ever had to want to know
what was really going on inside.

It was easier that way.
No one to disappoint me
as long as I don't let them in.
I never felt so empty, that I was alone,
until you asked me to stay.

Nobody ever talks about the quiet kind of survival.
The one where there's no dramatic moment, no phone call for help,
no tears seen. Just you. A bed. A ceiling.
A heartbeat that won't slow down.
You're lying there, barely holding yourself together.
And yet, somehow - again - you make it through.
No one claps.
No one even knows.
But you do.
You don't scream. You don't break anything. You just breathe through the ache,
through the panic, through the weight of everything you carry but never name.
And in the morning, you get up like it didn't almost end you.
That's the kind of survival no one ever applauds.
But its the hardest kind of all.

The hypocrisy of being human;
the constant tug between solitude and the company,
the desire to love so desperately and simultaneously
be detached from it all, of wanting everything and wanting nothing.

No.
I didn't handle anything well.
I went insane,
lost spark,
bled in silence,
shattered in private,
and wore a smile that lied
better than any mask ever could.

But what you don't know ......

Push me up against the wall
And tell me I drive you crazy...
I want to feel you.

Write poems inside of me with your fingers.
Our story begins when I scream
And ends with my soul on your smiling lips.

"That's a good girl, spreading those gorgeous legs apart, inviting my touch.
You're playing with fire, Kitten."