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 cage
with velvet paws and blood memory.

I see skin and hear psalms.
I smell sweat and taste scripture.
The ache is constant,
like waves against a dam
that I refuse to let break.

Not because I’m holy—
but because I’m healing.
Because I am tired
of giving away thunder
to people who only wanted the storm.

I want to be a lover who knows his own name
when the clothes come off.
I want to stay whole,
even when I open.

So I let the fire burn inside me
and make art from the smoke.
I turn my wanting into poetry,
my ache into prayer,
my restraint into power.

Not untouched—
but untamed and unspent.
Not numb—
but sovereign.
Not lonely—
but lit.

They say men like me are dangerous.
That we must be broken or bled.
But I am not starving.
I am fasting.

And in that difference,
there is revolution.