I am not what you think I am
unless you think I’m holy
in silk wrap and coconut oil,
a sermon whispered through skin.
They come to me
like pilgrims.
Some are broken
They tiptoe into the temple
with war in their shoulders
and ghosts in their jeans.
I slide against them—
wet and glistening,
not just for arousal,
but to remember
we were born slippery,
close to the Divine.
I do not fake softness.
It costs too much.
I carry it like gold
beneath my collarbone,
press it into them slowly,
until the hush takes over.
You can sell your body
a thousand different ways
and none of them look the same.
Mine just happens
to be gentle.
Worshipful.
Memorized in hands
like a prayer you forgot you knew.
They ask if I enjoy it.
That’s not the right question.
Ask if I vanish.
Ask if I surface.
Ask if I leave a part of myself
in the steam on the mirror.
Soft isn’t fake.
Soft is muscle.
Soft is survival.
Soft is currency
in a world that punishes
anything tender.
Yes—
I sell the storm
and the stillness.
I sell the ache that has manners.
I sell the hour …
where nobody needs saving
because I’ve already become the sea.