Tantra, Teas, and a Touch of Voodoo

I woke up this morning,
steeped a cup of rosemary and rebellion,
did a pelvic roll that summoned Damballa,
and whispered,
“Well damn… the goddess is home.”

I am Kama Sutra in stilettos,
Tantra with a twist of lime,
a Voodoo goddess with gold hoops
and a smirk that says,
“I know exactly what I’m doing.”

My ancestors didn’t survive
centuries of nonsense
for me to dim this divine glow
just because some folks still flinch
at hips that move like spells.

Pleasure?
Please.
It’s not a sin, darling—
it’s a strategy.
A sacred, slow-cooked gumbo
of breathwork, moans,
and a little well-placed side-eye.

I light candles,
chant mantras,
and sometimes twerk in my altar room
because spirit and sweat
go hand-in-hand.
Try telling that to La Siren
while she’s winding her waist
to a Haitian drumbeat at 3am.

And don’t get it twisted—
this healing?
It’s deep.
But it doesn’t have to be dry.
Laughter is a ritual.
Lust is an offering.
And liberation?
She loves a good punchline.

I’ve turned my trauma
into a tambourine,
my tears into tea,
and my boundaries into boudoirs.
You don’t get to be Queen of the Ocean
without knowing how to flirt with thunder
and seduce the tide.

So here I am—
unapologetically sacred,
deliciously divine,
a little inappropriate
and entirely ordained.

I bless rooms when I enter,
shift chakras with eye contact,
and when I say “amen,”
even the Loas say it back.

Call it Tantra.
Call it Voodoo.
Call it Too-Muchness.
But just know—

I call it
mine—-

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