A Name for the Want
It begins with a stare and deepens with every breath, touch, and unspoken desire. A Name for the Want is a sensual rhyming poem about crossing the fragile line between longing and surrender.
Under His Skin
His tattoos haunt her imagination—black lines she longs to trace across skin she cannot touch. Under His Skin is a smoky, intimate poem about forbidden desire and a crush who remains painfully out of reach.
A Place I Cannot Put My Hands
Some people are never ours to touch. They exist in the held gaze, the unspoken thing, the space between recognition and restraint. One Second Too Long is a poem about seeing someone deeply, wanting what you cannot reach for, and the exquisite ache of wondering what might exist in another version of this life.
To Love Her
Some people arrive quietly. Others arrive like a storm rolling in over warm ocean water, changing the shape of everything they touch. A poem about wild-hearted women, beautiful ruin, fierce tenderness, and the kind of love that asks you to stop playing it safe and start living with your whole heart. 🔥✨
Honey, Salt & Smoke
ome connections arrive quietly, disguised as summer.
A shared sunset. A brush of hands. A look that lingers a second too long.
This piece is about the dangerous beauty of finding someone who sees the wildness in you and doesn't ask you to become smaller. Someone who doesn't try to tame the storm, only stands beside it while it rages.
Honey, salt, smoke, ocean air.
The kind of chemistry that feels less like falling in love and more like finally coming home to yourself.
Black Beneath My Skin
Some people arrive like comfort.
Others arrive like a storm you willingly walk into.
This piece lives in the space between desire and tenderness, where longing becomes its own language and intimacy feels less like possession and more like recognition. It is about the kind of connection that sees every shadow, every scar, every wild and unspoken thing, and stays anyway.
Not because love saves us.
Because sometimes being truly seen is enough.
The Feral Girl
There are many women living inside me.
The feral girl. The grieving woman. The romantic. The destroyer. The one who aches for a life so vivid it leaves fingerprints on her soul.
For years I thought the hunger was the problem. The wanting. The tenderness. The way beauty, loss, love, and desire seem to cut deeper than they should.
But what if the ache isn't a flaw?
What if it's proof we're still alive?