Hot summer forest, sweat and dawn’s faint light,
My feet in time with sighs of willow trees,
Bare cheeks and skin, dew-glossed and shining bright,
My ******* sway freely, ******* hard in breeze,
Moss meets my wetness—harmonies, soft lies
Nightbirds perform their final song with ease,
While fireflies blink out their last goodbyes,
Alone, I’m cradled close by nature’s sweet surprise,
An ****** of dawn—my body soaring as I rise.

In dappled gold, a turtle halts my stride,
Her ancient fortress shell, a gaze unblinking,
Paused, I’m exposed—no secret folds to hide— 
Her slow, wise eyes undress me, softly blinking.
“Old mother,” I sigh, “what are you thinking?” 
Does my left breast seek the gentle morning sky? 
Do wild curls shame me, or my fantasizing? 
Do you see *******, not a perfect doll’s eye? 
The forest hushes, breathless, waiting for her reply. 

I study flesh—each mile sculps *** and breast,
Do I run for her, or am I just insane?
The rush of blood, feeding animal unrest,
Her body in our bed—my lust, a hurricane.
She’s dawn’s first glow; I’m shadow, bound by chain.
Does this sweat feed her gaze, or pool between thighs?
I pass fat faces, screens glued, cold with disdain—
I’d rather die in wildness, in open skies,
My body, food for forest, feasted by butterflies.

I touch things I’m not supposed to
and call it prayer.
mouth open,
spine bent,
tongue tasting the fence line.

They say longing is holy
if it stays quiet,
but mine doesn’t—
mine breaks the jar and drinks the oil.

They told me I was an open wound,
festering with verse and girlhood.
They weren’t wrong.
But wrong feels a lot like worship
when done slow enough.

They say impure
like it’s a curse,
but all my favorite girls
are made of swampwater and sin.

I’ve never confessed
without turning it into performance.
My mouth was built
for poetry
and plea deals.

I was thirteen
when I learned to ache
without making a sound.
Seventeen
when I turned it into scripture.
Twenty-five
when I realized no one was coming
to carry the body but me.

I keep trying to write
the right-sized truth
but it never fits in a single poem
or apology.

I want back the girl
who ran barefoot into fire
because she believed
it might be heaven.

I want someone to touch me like I’m soft—
even if I’m not.
Even if I bite back.

I want to grab
without apologizing
for how hot my hands are.
I want someone to look at me
like a threat they’d die for.

I want the kind of love
that makes funerals nervous.
I want to be written about
by someone who isn’t me.

And I want to want less.
But I don’t.

You want a softer girl?
Tell that to the altar
I keep burying her under.

Mother Eagle soars, our glistening bodies once dared to lie.
Our spring love, her wing takes flight—hands find sweetness within our thighs.
Mother Eagle, ever watchful, for the day love flies—goodbye.

Your laugh was a fawn, soft-footed and shy,
Caressing my *******, our fingers explore sweet-shivering highs.
Mother Eagle soars, our glistening bodies once dared to lie.

A million ****** star-eyes count ecstasy’s cries—
Their hush reveals parted lips where our pleasure flies.
Mother Eagle, ever watchful, for the day love flies—goodbye.

Dawn awakes, finds our secret cove, wet ******* kissed by butterflies.
Jays echo our love-cries, our breathless replies.
Mother Eagle soars, our glistening bodies once dared to lie.

Now nettles creep where we once soared the skies,
Moss fingers our secrets, deep as memories dry.
Mother Eagle, ever watchful, for the day love flies—goodbye.

We find our secret cove again, and you ask why.
We strip, we kiss, our untamed passion never dies.
Mother Eagle soars, our glistening bodies once dared to lie.
Mother Eagle, ever watchful, for the day love flies—goodbye.

I can see, you would

like to take off my net shirt --


but you don't do it.

Eu te quero, wouldn't cut it.
Então, eu preciso de você, tried to.
Mas tudo o que eu conseguia fazer era desejar sua existência.
Eu te quero com toda a minha sede
Eu te desejo loucamente
Não quero pegar leve esta noite.
Quero você de joelhos, olhos brilhantes, boca cheia.
Quero você engasgando com cada centímetro até seus lábios incharem e seus pensamentos desaparecerem.
Espere só.
Mantenha seus óculos.
E então eu vou te dobrar e fazer você esquecer como falar.
Chega de Google Tradutor
Quero te deixar meu coracao para tudo tempo de meu vida.

A hi buleni.

What is desire but to consume?
The holiest form of destruction,
Stirring an exquisite ache no prayer can thin.
It is a beauty so cruel it leaves the saints disgraced.
It breathes through the marrow, the mouth, the wound,
Splitting the spine from the soul with a presence stitched in shadow and silk

She arrived not as a woman,
But as a reckoning-
A cathedral of flesh made from midnight and bone,
Created before the world ever learned how to spell mercy.

He watched her at first from the safe distance of sanity,
Ignoring as God whispered to him to run.
At first, he classified it as fascination.
Then fascination bloomed into obsession the same way rot blooms beneath skin-
Silent, swelling, inevitable.

When he touched her for the first time…
It was the undoing of the commandments-
The rewriting of scripture in the language of skin.
Her taste- a sweet apostle of destruction
Carving prayer into his throat.
He had experienced her power and he now begs God to create another sin.
But there was no turning back.

His mouth learned the litany of her name
And her gaze was an abyss that whispered to him to jump.
Anointed with nails dragged down a spine
He, the disciple-
She, the altar.
Both overflowing with want,
With starvation.

When the angels wept, god finally picked up his pen
However, instead of carving into stone
He carved into trembling flesh:
“Let them be devoured.”
With this, God gifted her with the grace to tear him down to the marrow,
And he was grateful to experience each and every fracture.

Even with this, one cannot end in evil.
Not when love wears the face of ruin-
Not when surrender feels like salvation.
For how can one turn away from something so sinister when it wears the velvet guise of desire, whispering like a lover in the dark?

He laughed then. Loud- wild, cracked open.
Because madness replicated the flavor of her mouth-
Copper and honey, salt and blood.
There is no difference now between suffering and worship,
Agony and ecstasy.
And it is here he understood that love is to be consumed
To beg for the fire to burn cleaner.
Hotter.
Longer.
To become ash in her mouth,
And thank her for it.
He has forgotten his name and replaced it with hers,
Forgotten his face and replaced it with an outline of her hands

He has become broken by devotion and remade in her image.
For what is desire but to consume?
To melt the border between pain and prayer,
To be broken open,
To drown laughing in her shadow
And call it love.

A greenish wonder; wrapped in white,
It gave a floral scent of sublime delight.
Plucked from life; it held a belle desire,
There it held the glamorous shire.

The purpose was lost; a withered corpse,
The vase remained; a ceramic coarse.
Depraved of soul; an empty gloom,
There was a vase in my room.

Am I my own desires?
Bound to jump on my instincts
My body stripped
My eyes devoid of light
The same motions we used to make
With a stranger I just met
My consciousness altered
Reality has become a dream
But when I sleep I have none
What choice do I have
When it’s between the devil and my grave?

Shinning bright
in the misty night,
the only light
in sight;—
From your polished
face, I waited
once for long.
Like a song
it ended, leaving
you on my sighing
bare hands.
In the distant lands
my fame grew;—
Not a single dew
drop I saw
in my raw
life.
But why?
I cried;—
Why did
you left my
heart lie,
made of
tough;
grey steel—
Still warm
from the fire
you never meant
to stay?