I will not flinch. Not from the ache in my bonesnor the heaviness that gathers in the folds of my spirit.This pain—raw, holy, and uninvited—has set up camp in the hollows of my ribcage,and I have made it tea. I will not cast it out.I will sit with it, name it,trace its origins like constellationsstitched…

I walk with a furnace under my ribs.A red beast pacing behind my teeth.Sheer voltage in my palms,heat in my hips,lightning nesting at the base of my spine—and still, I do not touch. My body is a hymn of hunger.Not just wanting, but roaring.A lion made of lust, pacing the cagewith velvet paws and blood…

There is incense in the walls.Sandalwood and salt.It clings to the air like memory—burned slow,never fully leaving. I used to wake to bells in my chest,a rhythm that knew sunrisebefore the sky did.Now I rise onlybecause gravity insists.No melody.Just the dull tug of skin on soul. She—or whatever wore light so easily—left me a silence…