I
wear the scent of feminine flaws—
not a heavy fog,
but an amber invitation.
I am wrapped in a coat of shifting states:
frantic, fragile, open.
This is my terrain.
I
carry a quiet blade:
the instinct born in my blood.
I am the tide,
drawing you close, throwing you back,
governed only by my own moon.
My touch is a currency—
saved entirely for the one I love.
I
am an anchor made of smoke.
Perfectly still, privately wild.
Tough as iron, soft as water.
They mistake my desirability for innocence,
but I trace my own map:
grounded in ambition,
chasing a future.