#proseriot

summer heat melts

my inhibitions

now i'm naked

on the floor watching

cigarette smoke rise

into the ceiling

there, it dances,

sways in rapid tempo

if it's a sin, i ask the world

to be forgiving

limbs entangled

morning sweat, dreaming

we end up together

hushed voices, salty tears

summer heat burns

summer heat consumes

passion fast

so here i am running

out of your door

and i'm not looking back

"couldn't be, right? worst news ever? well, true. fireflies were always there, at least in the background when you were a kid and making all decisions that led to where we are now."

"without any goddamn fireflies? did you say fifteen different fuckin' types? that's a future that needs to be turned the fuck around. i want fifteen types of fireflies watching over me when i suck it up and walk home in the dark, all fifteen types. light the way, you beautiful lanterns!"

Remember, remember the fifth of May when we celebrated our freedom in confinement and tried to escape our house made of windows, just to end up trapped in the garden of Eden. Where we first met, all exposed, praying to some false God. Offering Them the bloodstain on your shirt and my dress woven from sunrays.

Weeks passed and that bloodstain grew, as did our companionship. My dress now more luminous than ever; your world rotating in my orbit. I was your sun in the mids of winter. But when autumn arrived your eyes like spring set my garden abloom.

🪢 The power of purity 🪢

He dragged his nails across her back like he was turning pages in a holy book written only for him.

Not rushed. Not careless. Each inch of skin read like scripture he’d waited lifetimes to touch. She didn’t flinch.

She arched into the pain, into the promise, into the place where violence becomes reverence.

He didn’t demand her surrender. He conjured it. In silence, in pressure, in the way his presence occupied the air and made it thick with permission she didn’t even know she was waiting to give.

He didn’t take anything. Not her breath. Not her power. Not her will.

He simply gave her a reason to offer it. And she did.

Because something about him said, you are safest when you are undone.

~ TK Savage

Words by me.

✧ ✧ ✧ Authors confession. A glimpse into why I wrote this poem. ✧ ✧ ✧

The Power of Purity came from a deep yearning to show that power, when handled with reverence, becomes the most healing form of intimacy. This wasn’t about control. It was about surrender of the upper echelons of consensual exchanges. Power not taken, but offered.

I needed this piece to feel like a sanctuary. A place where a woman could be undone without being broken. Where her rawest parts weren’t weaknesses, but altars. Writing it was like kneeling to the idea that love can be filthy, wild, brutal, and still deeply pure. Purity isn’t softness. It’s clarity. And this is the kind of clarity that comes only after you’ve been loved into pieces.

The Power of Purity is my love letter to ethical dominance. So many get it wrong, thinking control is taken rather than invited. This piece was born from the hunger to be unmade by someone who understands the weight of your silence and holds it with reverence. I wanted this to be a prayer. A sin. A truth. The writing personifies everything I believe about ethical power exchange. It’s about dominance that doesn’t destroy. It purifies.

I smoke cigarettes at the

Beach

Sunglasses on

And it’s hot and it’s windy

I’ve had every broken heart of my life in my parents’ house,

my childhood bedroom is stained with claw marks and spattered blood and teary grainy gritty lonely nights spent curled up

sobbing into the carpet.

You said

“I love you”

“Thank you i love the jewelry”

“Do you think our parents should meet soon”

And then you said

hope you’re happy with the next man.

I guess, when you don’t lend everything, you can’t lose it when your lover leaves.

We are all strapped in for the ride tonight.

I’m thinking of you because of course I am, because I always am. Because I’m in love with you.

I wish you’d come knocking but I don’t, because I know I’d answer, and that’s the thing.

Summer, five years ago. Or else summer now. Or else lying dead in a ditch. Whatever. Each moment drags by the same. All just the same, tiny studded blips of cellulite stardust.

I guess, when you’re young, you have to give your virginity to a man who doesn’t love you.

I’ve been the lightest here, the heaviest. The same and different. Healthy brain, electric shocks.

I’ve been the nicest, the meanest here; jobless, jobful. Hopeless, hopeful. Mystic and plain. Always messy. Always in love.