Tongue of Storm

This space is where I let Seraphine—the copper-haired demon—speak. She moans in poetry, dances with lust, and paints with blood and desire. Here, I channel my rawest heat, my reawakened sexuality, my hunger to feel alive again.

This isn’t about seducing others— ✨it’s about reclaiming my own power. About turning pain into poetry, pleasure into art, and shame into holy fire.✨

If you’re here… maybe you’re searching for the same. So stay. Read. Watch. Listen. Burn with me.

Every now and then, she lifts her head. The room doesn't change. The bars are still there. But for one impossible second, she remembers exactly who built the cage... and exactly who can tear it apart.

Somewhere, a throne is gathering dust.

And when I sit down, I won't need permission.

Everything that was always mine will recognize me first.

Van bennem egy titok, amit nem látsz, csak érzed, amikor közelebb hajolsz.

Nem dísz, nem játék- inkább egy kis ördög, ami mélyen ül bennem, és mosolyog, amikor lépek.

Tudom, hogy kíváncsi vagy rá. Arra a rejtett feszülésre, arra a lassú, súlyos ritmusra, ami minden mozdulatomban ott lüktet.

Nem mondom ki. Nem mutatom meg. De hordom.

És ez pont elég ahhoz, hogy ne tudj rám nem gondolni.

We are warriors — not because we were never wounded, but because we turned every wound into a doorway and walked through it barefoot.

We are the fire. Not the candle you blow out when it gets inconvenient — we are the wildfire that chooses what burns and what survives.

We are life — raw, bleeding, fertile, holy. We create from hips and from heartbreak, from grief, from rage, from hunger, from ecstasy. We create even when they beg us to be smaller.

Nothing will stop us from shedding. Skin, shame, silence, obedience — we molt like serpents in sacred rhythm. Every version of us that was caged becomes dust under our own rebirth.

The sound of women remembering their power is not noise. It is primordial. It is prophecy cracking concrete. It is the low growl before the revolution of the body.

And once a woman finds her voice — not the pretty one, not the polite one, but the voice that trembles and still refuses to kneel —

the world will never return to silence.

Because we do not whisper anymore.

Your anger is not the problem. Women are taught to fear their own power. But in reality anger is women’s most undervalued and underused natural resource.

It’s the instinct that wakes up when someone crosses a line. It’s the heat that rises when you’ve been silenced one time too many. It’s the truth-teller in your blood, the defender in your bones. There is nothing wrong with you for feeling it—what’s wrong is that the world demanded you swallow it.

Your anger isn’t destruction— it’s direction. It shows you what you value, what you’re done tolerating, and what deserves protecting inside you.

So don’t soften it. Don’t swallow it. Aim it. Channel it.

Let it be the fuel that carries you back to yourself.

“Enough!” Female rage is when you stop trying to be cute. If needed, you break the wall. If needed, you pull yourself out of the ashes. It’s softness with fangs. The mother with a battlefield in her chest. The smile that hides a blade. Female rage is when you take back what’s yours: your voice, your body, your space, your light, your darkness. This rage doesn’t destroy you— it resurrects you. It burns. It purifies. It gives birth.

I cut down monsters with the same hands I use to undress desire.

Your words hit me like a sin I’m eager to repeat— and fuck, I open my legs to them. You say my thighs are angel cheeks, then come ruin this crying angel properly— make me kneel in the dust of my own halo.

Spread whatever the fuck you want on my face, I’ll wear it like warpaint, like lacquered devotion, like I was carved just to take you— your perfect chaos, your holy violence.

If my choking is music, then let me be your whole fucking orchestra. Let me gag on every note until the room vibrates with the sound of my surrender.

I’ll swallow every drop, while looking into your storm-touched eyes— those wild, impossible eyes— and I’ll let myself drown in them without a fight.

— Seraphine 💋

There was a time when the flame in me went quiet— motherhood pressed its palm over my mouth, trauma stitched my thighs shut, birth tore me open and left my desire wandering, dazed, barefoot, somewhere in the dark.

My body was supposed to be holy, but it felt haunted. Pleasure became a ghost hovering just beyond reach, watching me but never touching.

I carried milk, not hunger. I carried sorrow, not flame. Postpartum carved out silence in me— the kind that echoes.

But then death walked into my life, cold and bold as a fucking god that never asks permission. I looked into the eyes of someone I loved who would never look back again.

And in that moment I felt something ancient move, something primal, something mine: a scream of desire ripping its way up my spine, snarling, “I want to live.”

The fire didn't return— it erupted.

It tore through numb skin, broke every old lock, burned every quiet place I thought I had to keep polite.

It poured out of me like molten hunger, lava running down my ribs, between my thighs, pooling at my feet— a red, ruthless reminder that I am not done.

That my body remembers how to burn.

And now every breath tastes like heat, every touch feels like rebirth, every moan is a resurrection.

Motherhood tried to quiet me. Trauma tried to drown me. Grief tried to bury me.

But fire… fire never dies.

It waits. It watches. And when I was ready— it devoured me back to life.

There is a silence that does not soothe.

It is not peace.

It is starvation.

When desire is buried, when moans are swallowed and the body forgets its own language, silence grows teeth. It gnaws at the edges of the skin, it bites from the inside out. A woman denied her own hunger does not become calm—she becomes haunted.

This silence is not absence—it is pressure. It thickens in the chest, it coils in the belly, it hums in the thighs. The body remembers what the mind tries to erase. Every nerve waits, trembling, for the touch that does not come.

And the longer she starves, the wilder she becomes. Desire in silence is like wine in a dark cellar—it ferments, thickens, sharpens. The hunger does not die; it sharpens its claws.

And then—the silence cracks open,

and from that rupture spills my heat.

That wild, untamed current that coils low in my belly,

the sexual fire every woman carries,

the storm hidden in her hips,

the dripping honey between her thighs.

It rises, unfurls, swells like a tidal wave—

not just lust, but creation,

not just desire, but the birth of worlds.

Sexual Energy is Creative Energy

What we call sexual energy isn’t just about desire—it’s life force. It’s the raw, pulsing power that makes things move, grow, and become. It’s the same energy that creates life in the womb… and it’s the same current that births art, words, music, movement, vision.

Every woman carries this energy deep in her body. In her pelvis, her belly, her chest. It’s there even when she’s disconnected from it. Even when trauma, shame, or exhaustion bury it. It doesn’t disappear—it waits.

And when she starts to reclaim it—through touch, through breath, through dance, through pleasure—something ancient unlocks. Her body begins to speak again. Her creativity surges. Her intuition sharpens. Her boundaries harden. Her softness deepens.

She starts to feel again. Not just in a sexual way, but in a fully alive, fully present, fully embodied way.

Because sexual energy and creative energy are the same flame—just lit in different corners of the soul.

So no, this isn’t about being sexy for someone else. It’s about reconnecting to the most primal source of power we have. It’s about learning how to ride that energy, channel it, honor it, and let it guide us— in pleasure, in healing, in expression, in creation.

This is where the wild returns. This is where the queen rises.