They call me Lina
moon-kissed, star-fed, art in the shape of a woman who remembers every secret the night ever whispered.
A masterpiece aching toward peace, shimmering between shadow and flame.
I am a lover and a creator, a light-warrior with desire coiled like ancient magic beneath my ribs.
A writer who summons worlds, an artist who paints pleasure into the air with nothing but my breath.
I am nurturing like warm midnight water
my love could flood the world in a biblical sense.
But make no mistake: I carry a machete for anyone who mistakes my softness for surrender.
I will scorch this world to protect mine.
A greedy nymphomaniac for heat, for energy, for the slow pulse of skin meeting intention
a giver who pours so deeply that even the universe arches a little when I exhale.
