Woman is man’s terrestrial link to divinity.
Generously, women have reverberated into the cells and tissues of men, reverberating the abyss of consciousness from which we came, shifting and shimmering inside forever, like a madness. Leaving them aching, brilliantly, with the familiarity of non-existance.
Some women have reclaimed their power to levitate above time, to desert linear thought and fragmented consciousness, to reconvene with the sacred. To exaggerate passion. They remember how to use their nocturnal emissions to draw light out of the dark. They remembered that in their genetic coding, there is a capacity for alchemy, a euphoric bliss that expands and also paralyzes.
Some women know when they are being thought about, spoken about and when they are being masturbated to, particularly when we have allowed for our relationships with people to extend beyond the physical. The partners we collect and then detach from can feel like phantom limbs, like something that got lost in the dark, still there, still itching, but not solidified in flesh. Some of us know how to invite the etheric embodiments of people into our world, how to communicate with the subtle ghosts people leave in our bodies.
I like to make men mad, I like to see their feverous, greedy eyes, their heated, interrupted breath, hungry to digest something unattainable. I like to provoke them with my magnetism and then pull away, drawing back the light in the room.
It’s like the sound of doors unlocking, the jarring, discombobulating potency of powered femininity, something non physical, something holy.
Tell me how it feels, my darling, to be hip deep in a goddess, to be lapping in the waves of a thousand luscious vibrations, each one stronger than the previous.Tell me about the wicked emotions that make you tremor. Tell me about how I terrify you. Tell me what faction of heaven I take you to.
My heart is full of you, my phantom limb, itching in your absence. I think of your scars as exotic tattoos.