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I am a Murder of One
I am hair soft as silk, longing to feel the lazy fingers of a lover tangled inside me.
Wrapped in my crown of burnt honey, warm and fragrant, like sun drenched linen.
I am the delicate pads of fingertips, searching for connection in the heat of your pulse. My touch leaving, in its wake, little remembrances of my devotion when I’m gone, like tiny dream droplets peppering your skin in the rain.
I am heart—four chambers beating wildly with the force of a locomotive.
Crimson and fierce, afraid of nothing and everything—depending on the moment—but always stretching, ever expansive and resilient.
I am hands that wave to please so well, sitting in solitude, unpaired and untethered.
Strong and commanding, yet capable of cradling the most fragile or furious of hearts.
I am the fear that will not be silenced—that experience reminds me, I am too damaged, too intense, too kind, too loving.
I twist and contort to satisfy.
I am a murder of one.
I am the beacon, the respite.
The port in the storm for weary souls who come, always so battered and broken.
Souls recognizing ourselves in one another.
I loved them all—even the ones who left me with nothing.
I am fire, I am sunshine, I am your favorite song on a happy day. I am a rainbow blanket wrapping you in my simple yet intricate stitches, keeping the world at bay, just a little longer.
I am your truest friend, your most ardent defender, and your most loyal subject.
I am the light you seek and the flame you fear.