To Love Her
To love her
is to set a match to your old life
and watch the whole goddamn thing burn gold.
She is not the candle in the window.
She is the inferno swallowing the horizon.
The kind of woman men write songs about
after ruining themselves beautifully in her orbit.
Black hair tangled by ocean wind,
green eyes glowing like trouble under neon light,
skin kissed by salt and sun and midnight sins.
She moves through the world like hunger
wearing jewelry.
Wild.
Feral.
Laughing with smoke in her lungs
and starlight caught between her teeth.
Loving her feels like standing too close to fire
and realizing too late
you never wanted saving anyway.
Because she does not love politely.
She loves with claw marks.
With whiskey heat and trembling mouths.
With hands that pull your soul out by the ribs
just to kiss it back awake.
She is pink lightning splitting the sky open.
Disco ball starlight spinning across sweat-slick skin.
A backseat confession at 2AM.
A barefoot girl dancing in the kitchen
like heartbreak never dared touch her.
And somehow,
despite all that chaos,
she is devastatingly tender.
The kind of woman who sees the monster in someone
and strokes its face instead of running.
Who loves dark men softly enough
to make them wonder
if maybe they deserved softness all along.
She makes people greedy for life.
Greedy for touch.
For truth.
For the terrifying miracle
of being fully seen.
To love her
is to stop asking love to be safe.
Love was never supposed to be safe.
It was supposed to be gasoline and roses.
Teeth and devotion.
Holy hands wrapped around a shaking heart.
The feeling of a body colliding with another body
like two storms finally finding the same ocean.
She is not the calm after the chaos.
She is the chaos worth kneeling for.
A gorgeous life force.
All velvet darkness and summer heat.
A woman who could pull heaven down by its throat
just to make the night brighter
for the people she loves.
And when she kisses you,
the whole world feels electric.
Like every dead thing inside you
just caught fire. 🔥✨