,
Growing up, long before shame learned my name, I was taught to fear it. Before I could even name it, there was instinct.
They told me wanting was dangerous—sinful, vulgar, shameful. Not something my gender should understand. Desire, they said, should be modest. Careful. Folded. Invisible. Never asked for.
But I was never meant for silence—I knew that deep inside. So while I kept quiet for a while, my skin remembered too loudly. My want, my need, my hunger—secrets I carried like sin. But inside me, fire kept speaking.
Before silence carved its rules into my being, before it tried to turn me into someone I was not, I had already learned how to listen to want.
Desire isn’t vulgar. It isn’t shameful. It isn’t dangerous. And most importantly—it is not a sin.
Desire is necessity. It is natural. It is human. It is biological. And it is mine.
It’s sacred. It’s survival. It’s invigorating. It’s freeing.
Desire is art. A way to express the soul. It’s not always physical. Sometimes, it’s the wild intimacy between two hearts, two energies colliding in a space beyond language.
And I will not apologize for the art of being fully alive in my own body.
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