I don’t enter rooms.
I consecrate them.
Perfume of frankincense,
hips like a sermon,
eyes that say: I know exactly where your soul’s been hiding—
and I’m not here to fix it.
I’m here to flirt with it.
Call me Tantra in heels,
Mambo in motion,
the Kama Sutra’s favorite niece
who sips tea like holy water
and laughs like she owns the moon.
I don’t chase.
I channel.
If the energy ain’t divine or delicious,
it doesn’t get a seat
at this altar.
They say I’m a femme fatale—
not because I destroy men,
but because I remind them
what real power looks like
in soft skin and satin.
My thighs?
Honeyed weapons of mass awakening.
My smile?
A portal, darling.
Don’t get lost unless you’re ready
to meet God… or your shadow.
I meditate naked.
Pray with my hips.
My chakras are bilingual—
they speak fire and finesse.
I don’t do shallow.
I do sacred with sass.
I’ll read your aura
and your birth chart,
then wink while I walk away
because I’ve got moon rituals to attend
and lingerie that deserves to be seen
by candlelight and ancestors.
This body is scripture.
This laugh? Liberation.
This love? A revolution in lace.
So no—
I’m not everyone’s cup of tea.
I’m the whole elixir.
Served warm,
infused with rose,
and spiked with a little something
only goddesses know how to brew—
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