daily reminder

starving artist? no. my muse prefers to be eaten until the poems drip down my chin.

yes. magick with a k. the k is for: kitty says the best spells start with an arched back. pleasure does the rest. anything else is just alchemy without alignment. mkay?

hair messy, lips swollen, tongue dipped in ember, eyes that dare me to remember every death it took to deserve this moment. i forget what decade it is, what body i’m in, like time itself is bleeding out between us. magick. absolute, magick.

freckles like tiny burn marks from a past life where she burned for truth and came back still smoking.

call it a foot fetish if it helps you sleep, but i just wanna wake up by her side massage the acheout of the soles that carried her through hell, until her toes curl beneath my worship, her hips rise back up to the heavens, and the serpent in her spine feels safe enough to dance again.

the glow on her skin comes from scorching every mask the world wanted her to wear to earn their warmth and resurrecting herself as her own sun. even darkness fell in love.

you can’t fuck a phoenix if you’re still afraid of burning.

only souls who’ve bled poetry into the ashes of their dragons can love a woman who’s on fire.

you can tell she’s medicine by how much she scares the ones addicted to control.

men fear witches. poets marry them.

lover boy? no. man of god. and her? oh. my. god.

she never needed a savior. just someone who knew how to savor the flavor of heaven that cost her a lifetime of hell. good thing i'm from tennessee where honeysuckle-thick-summers taught me storms grow the richest sweetness so i stay even when it pours.

fuck around & find art fall in love & find god fall apart & finally find the courage to bleed color outside the lines fear painted to keep you small

no one having bomb sex is bombing countries. js.

love language

imagine hating on me while i’m literally in bed, getting paid to worship her with a rose quartz wand, and take notes while she parts the veil. while you’re trolling in the comments. tragic.

every man who calls himself king should know what it means to let her throne be his face. don't you dare speak about leadership until you learn the language of her hips.

my barber calls it a mohawk, but the mystic in me calls it the middle path between ecstasy & enlightenment. if you've never let a woman grip ur hair to center her root with ur crown, like she’s steering the kundalini itself, while ur tongue traces the geometry of creation... you wouldn't understand.

if you haven't fallen apart mid-kiss, questioning whether this is love, lust, or leftover stardust from another life, are you even practicing esoteric eroticism? or are you still playing at missionary spirituality?

wild how shame shapeshifts. i used to hate my nose. got bullied for it being too big. now it’s the thing that makes her legs tremble when i'm eating her from the back. guess healing’s funny like that. turns wounds into weapons of worship. or maybe i'm just wild.

hear me out: what if the pyramids weren’t built with slave labor... but with song? like, literal vibration. just imagine being so in tune with the universe that your moans could unravel and reshape matter.

if you’ve never heard the sound of a woman’s hips begging in rhythms her mouth will never understand, you don’t know music.

when she arches her spine and exhales, i swear i can hear the angels rewrite the alphabet. so i stopped drawing sigils, and started speaking the language of her yes.

my love language is her eyes rolling back like she’s possessed, and i’m the priest, demon, and savior all in one.

i could write a thousand poems about love, but nothing compares to the way her thighs write one across my face.

fuck nudes. show me your gnosis.

horny for coherence. call me old fashioned, but i like my foreplay with a side of electromagnetic field alignment. seriously. there's nothing sexier than a body fully lit by awareness humming like a love song to creation.

when you eye gaze long enough the ego dies. no wonder they made medusa a monster.

nothing rearranges a belief faster than being kissed by someone who refuses to let you stay small.

love is the original alchemy. you can turn shame into gold just by touching it consciously.

hey babe, if he can't handle your open heart... he doesn't deserve to taste your orgasm.

audacity blushed when it met her. open.substack.com/pub/christhe...

people say sex sells but they never tell you truth fucks harder.

the church taught me to fear hell. addiction taught me i was already living there. poetry taught me to flirt with fire until even the flames wanted to marry me.

sometimes i wish i could tattoo my notes app rants across my skin. that way you’d stop asking me to be palatable and finally see the graffiti of my insides.

half the “mental health crisis” is just people realizing they were never meant to sit under fluorescent lights 40+ hours a week pretending spreadsheets are their soul purpose.

listen babe... if he can't unclench your jaw, he doesn't deserve to unclasp your bra.

nothing in this world tastes better than a woman tasting her own freedom.

she is not your pleasure. she is your portal. and if you're brave enough to stop performing power and start practicing presence, she might just open. not her legs. her universe. ~ @christhecocreator.bsky.social 📸 Michele Ietro, Michael Ruess

i love when she wraps her leg around me like she’s locking in her favorite memory.

if you love me now, know you’re loving a resurrection.

there’s a difference between wishing for something and surviving everything that tried to kill you before it showed up.

every lie i ever believed about being unworthy was born from someone else’s fear.

you’re buying her lilies. i’m blood-soaked in her lilith. calling her to step barefoot into the wildness she’s been told to tame. don’t get me wrong, flowers are sweet. but i want to see her bloom teeth-first.

you want her perfume. i want her primal.

you’re calling her beautiful. i’m calling her back home to herself.

you see madness. i see the medicine that undoes centuries of men who couldn’t hold her howl.

you want to tame her. i want to taste her before she’s done growling. before she’s done grieving. before she’s done burning through every lie she ever called love.