Soft Power, Strong Tongue

I used to run—heels clicking, hopes high,
Chasing intimacy like it was hiding in a damn alley
behind some bad jazz and emotional unavailability.
Spoiler: it wasn’t.

I once thought love was earned in installments—
cook, stroke ego, sprinkle some vulnerability like parsley on top.
Maybe then I’d get a text back.
Maybe then he’d call me.

But grace—
Grace walked in wearing nothing but confidence and coconut oil.
She said,
“Beloved, why are you chasing when you’re the feast?”
And honestly…
I almost dropped my sage bundle.

See, I’ve learned:
Intimacy isn’t built in begging.
It’s built in the bold pause
between “come over”
and “come correct.”

I don’t audition for affection.
My body is not a Groupon.
My softness is not a special offer expiring at midnight.

No, no, sugar.
My softness is a whole event.
Catered. Candlelit. With a velvet rope.
Only real ones get past security.

I attract now.
In laughter. In lotion. In knowing.
I let eye contact linger like it knows secrets.
I pour tea slow and ask what’s your intention with this energy, sir?

Let me be clear:
I am not a chase.
I’m a magnetic field wrapped in lingerie and boundaries.

I receive kisses like compliments—
gracefully,
grinning,
and absolutely certain
that the universe flirts with me for a reason.

Because this—
this feminine essence,
this intimacy I offer with open palms and playful smirk—
is not a transaction.

It’s an invitation.
To presence.
To reverence.
To the kind of love that laughs from the belly
and moans from the soul.

So don’t mistake my softness for passivity.
I’m not passive—I’m plotted.
Strategic. Sensual. Sacred. Slightly sarcastic.
And fully sovereign.

Come correct.
Or don’t come at all.

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