Some days, it’s a hunger
a deep pull from the stomach,
not for food, not for water,
but for something unnamed,
something just out of reach.

It’s in the way the morning air feels electric,
like possibility itself,
how the sun spills over cracked sidewalks,
touching everything,
saying, Look. Be here. Want more.

It’s in the ache of laughter
that lasts too long,
in the way music grips the ribs
and shakes loose something tender.
It’s the way fingers linger
when hands almost meet.

And yes, some days, the hunger fades,
buried under the weight of routine,
but then
a scent, a sound, a sudden rush of memory
and there it is again,
the pull, the ache, the craving
for more of this,
this fragile, fleeting, impossible thing.

This life.

The warm light of afternoon
brings a blur to our harsh wrinkles.
Like a line drawing drafted over and over
after several mistakes.

The blemishes of us bleed and clot like brush strokes
on the painting of a landscape
Fleeting blues, searing orange,
the vista of our bends and breaks.

We sit together, as close as we can,
my nose in the cavity of your neck.
My surplus in the caves you carry,
your tears, lakes in my overbite.

I'll hold your hand holding mine holding yours,
breathe in your breath out.
If nobody is whole you can be my left foot,
and I can be your right.

Do not pity the
flower that has
died, it will bloom
once more, as an
ephemeral moment in life
you held dearly, in truth,
you were unaware of
how it always
returned.

She comes
when the feast is over—
not to take,
but to finish
what rot has begun.

The bones,
long stripped of love,
call her.
They do not mourn
the absence of meat.
They beg
to be remembered.

Yes,
her wings are tarred
with blame,
her beak cracked
on shame's old fruit—
but who else
dares clean
what grief leaves behind?

The lambs
cannot stomach endings.
The lions
forget to bury.

She is
the silence
after screaming,
the undertaker
no one thanks.

They say she poisons.
But poison too
is medicine
in the right dose,
at the right time.

Let her purge
what clings.
Let her feed
on what must not follow.

Not cursed—
essential.
Not cruel—
cleansing.

She weeps,
yes.
But only for the living
who hoard their dead.

Caught in a ripple effect,
My plans unravel before my eyes.
I might break, or I might smirk—like a diamond,
Priceless, unyielding.

Honey, I shine with my own originality.
You? A moissanite—just imitation,
A hollow mimic of what’s truly real.

From mourning, I rise reborn,
A black snake coiled around a katana,
Fading to a blood-red hue.

Side-eyed, venomous chic, with short, trimmed hair,
Rebelled like a sin, a tattooed bloodstain on my neck.

Bruised patch on my wrist—slash me with your best shot.

We stomp and we romp
with our filthy, bare feet
we jump and we bump
in the high summer heat.

Just skin, nails, and teeth
stop when we see blood
we are the ***** girls
rolling around in the mud.

We're queer, we drink beer
in the park in the dark
we yawp, twist, and shout
and we jeer and we bark.

We **** for the thrill
in the sweet with sweat season;
we say it's revenge,
but we don't need a reason.

Saturated plum flesh
bursting between jaws,
we are boundless, we are seeping,
we are love without laws.

Serene, float among green growth,
Buds desire to open, join the flotilla.
Gentle one, you are like the waterlily
Which grow across the surface,
The still surface of my pond.

Your sigh—flute’s trill upon my waiting neck,
Awakens chords that hum beneath my breast.
Melodies where naked spirits—*****,
Notes wild and free, where passions seek their crest.

Each touch, a whole note, bodies, andante, coalesce,
A prelude to a symphony of our scents,
Where songs of pleasure swell, we gently press,
Our emotions we softly bare—no consent.

Your skin, a sun-warmed drum—hands descend,
We resonate in rhythms—smooth and deep.
Exploring with you, lost in sweet desires, ageless spent.
I taste the salt where gentle currents seek sleep.

Our inner music flows, a tide without a name,
In Gaia's Soothing Haven, our bodies, unashamed.