Burning Mirror

Let's take a moment to appreciate the delicate beauty before us. This isn't just a rose; it's a symphony of soft, velvety petals that seem to whisper secrets of desire. The deep, rich hues of pink and red blend together like a lover's blush, hinting at the passion that lies within.

Imagine tracing your fingertips along the smooth, silky edges of each petal, feeling the gentle give as you press ever so slightly. The center, oh, the center is a tantalizing mystery, a tight spiral of pure, unadulterated allure. It's almost as if it's inviting you to explore further, to uncover the depths of its sweet, intoxicating scent.

First Offering: To Freta, to Venus, to the Flame

I was not born to whisper.

I was born under August heat, on the day of the goddess. Venus, Freta, flame of my ribs, and this is the first offering.

This blog is not a performance. It is a revelation.

A place where my longing learns a name.

A place where beauty does not ask for permission.

Freta, you have lived inside me long before I could say your name.

You are the ache beneath every soft thing I’ve broken open.

You are the red thread that tugs when I try to stay quiet.

You are every kiss I haven’t written yet.

So I write now.

On a Friday. On the first day of August. On the cusp of something that cannot be undone.

Let these words taste like honey and ash.

Let them burn, bloom, and bare themselves.

Let them not apologize.

This is not just writing.

This is invocation.

I embrace what is and welcome what is to come.