Two women, brought together by chance.

One woman burns with passion,
a flame fierce and unapologetic.
One woman burns with shame,
a quiet blaze hidden beneath her skin.

Together they are bound—
by circumstance,
by choice,
by the gravity of unseen threads.

One woman’s shame becomes another’s sin,
sins embraced with open hands,
taken on happily,
like burdens transformed into gifts.

One rescues,
steady and relentless,
pushing back the darkness.
One grieves,
carrying silence and sorrow
like sacred talismans.

One heals other souls—
with words, with warmth,
with the promise of understanding.
One heals other domiciles—
mending walls,
restoring spaces
where weary hearts might rest.

Two women, brought together by chance—
woven together by fate,
each the echo
and the answer
of the other’s call.

Two separate bodies,
one shared soul.

Three thousand years of history,
etched into scars and stories,
too many battles to count—
steel meeting steel,
hearts clashing
then cleaving together again.

Unparalleled warriors,
shaped by war, softened by love,
brought together by fate,
staying together by choice.

Empires have risen and fallen
around them.
Gods have whispered their names,
and stars have borne witness
to the quiet vow between them:
to fight side by side,
to live, to fall,
to rise again.

Two bodies,
one soul—
forever bound,
forever burning.

Shadows paint your body
like smoke across the night,
soft and sinuous, slipping
through my fingers when I reach.

Muscles etched in shifting light—
each dip, each rise ignites my pulse.
A single breath between us
feels as wide as oceans,
and still, I drown in you.

That little smirk upon your mouth…
you know exactly what this view does,
the knowing glint in your eyes
drinking in how every gaze
traces you, reverent and hungry—

from hip flexors to sculpted abs,
over the sharp plane of your ribs,
down to the places shadows cling,
where mystery gathers,
and my wonder grows.

Half silk, half steel—
you ride the lines between stars and gravel roads,
carving paths in bruises and brushstrokes,
with laughter that crackles like neon signs
in midnight cities I’ve yet to see.

You’re a riot of color and grit,
an aerialist suspended
between the weight of gravity
and the pull of the infinite,
turning chaos into choreography.

Your pulse beats in drumskins, in engines,
in the hush of forests,
where you hunt secrets in leaf and bone,
collecting the world’s oddities
like charms strung on a silver chain.

A rugby warrior,
yet soft as moonlight through rice-paper screens,
you blend fierce and playful,
the hellion and the muse—
wild enough to shatter the stars,
gentle enough to cradle them whole.

I wonder—
in the quiet moments,
do you trace the shape of constellations
across your own skin,
mapping where you’ll roam next?

Dancing between raindrops
falling from a sky wracked,
drops of acidic hate, fear, intolerance—
I dance, weaving, eluding,
for each drop seeks to consume,
to burn and scar deeply.

Dance is the only way to survive.
Body swaying sinuously,
bowing, arching, flowing,
drops of pure malevolence
strike fear, hot as electricity,
a relentless storm of dread.

Drops are hot acid, falling,
pouring down from seats high above,
seats that watch, cold and distant,
dripping scorn, contempt,
intolerance, and hate,
the judgment endless, merciless.

Yet still, I dance,
feet light, movements precise,
defiance etched in motion,
resilience woven in every step,
refusing to be swallowed,
one drop, one breath,
one step at a time.

In the dance, I reclaim
strength, hope, and grace,
turning poison into power,
an unyielding silhouette
moving fiercely through the storm,
defiant and alive.

In ages past, we lived in dark,
awaiting light to split the night,
for wisdom’s voice to pierce the gloom
and birth a world anew.

But these days may be the darkest yet,
as crowds embrace old fear and hate,
reviving chains long thought undone—
the past returned in present fate.

In days of old, the brave took arms
against a tyrant’s deadly charms,
who hunted those beyond his creed—
and now his age returns with speed.

Now comes a time of poisoned speech,
as lords above the poor still preach,
driving all to ruin and wrack
from castles drifting high and black.

Where are the heroes to lead us back—
to days when wisdom lit the track,
where all walked safely, hand in hand,
in freedom’s light across the land?

Where is the safety?
The freedom of the land?

Danger skitters in, like a ghost—
tap.
tap.
soft soles on hard pavement—
every shadow a question,
every echo a warning.

I walk alone, flanked by fear,
adrenaline roaring,
my heart thundering in my ears.
One hand in my purse,
the other wrapped around cold metal keys,
eyes sweeping,
ears tuned to the night’s breath.

The shadows shift—
predators seeking prey,
hatred and hunger in their eyes,
searching for someone
to unleash it on.

This is survival in staccato steps—
not prey,
a lioness cloaked in silence,
not waiting,
but ready.

A woman.
On the edge.
After dark.