They said,
“Tone it down—you’re too much.”
I said,
“Then maybe I’m not for little spoons.”
They mistook my hips for a thesis,
my laughter for an audition,
my gaze for an invitation—
when all I really wanted was a damn smoothie
and a moment to flirt with God.
Oh, how seductive I become
when I tell the truth—
without lingerie,
without lipstick,
just raw candor wrapped in coconut oil
and maybe some sage.
You see,
I used to undress for love—
Now I undress for freedom.
I light candles, not for romance,
but because my ancestors are watching
and they like ambiance.
They think I’m trying to tempt them—
Honey, I am the temptation.
But not the kind you taste and forget.
I’m the kind you remember
when your soul starts itching
and your spirit says, “She told you so.”
I’m not a fantasy.
I’m a footnote in your spiritual awakening,
a sacred side-eye in your healing journey,
the chapter you dog-ear and pretend
you didn’t reread three times.
I don’t play hard to get.
I am hard to earn.
Because truth is expensive, darling—
and vulnerability doesn’t go on sale.
I am seduction that reads you poetry.
That asks about your inner child
and still makes you blush in public.
I will laugh during the ritual,
cry during dessert,
and flirt with the moon before bed.
So next time you feel enchanted—
don’t panic.
It’s not a spell.
It’s just that I finally stopped hiding
and my truth has a killer sense of humor.
Now pass the rose tea—
and tell your shadow I said hello—
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