holy in my hunger: desire, reclamation, and the art of being mine again

i was taught to fear my body before i ever had the chance to feel at home in it. before i could name a boundary, i was told not to tempt one. before i understood hunger, i was told to swallow it whole. i learned early that being a girl meant being watched—and that being watched meant being blamed. i was expected to stay small, quiet, modest. to make myself digestible. but i was never meant to be a side dish. i was born full course, full fire, full mouth of want.

desire was never safe. not in the churches that called it sin. not in the bedrooms that called it currency. not in the classrooms where my body developed before i was ready to carry it. so i did what so many of us do: i disconnected. i left my body before anyone else could evict me. i turned off the switch and called it survival. and for years, i wore shame like a second skin—learning how to be a good mother, a good wife, a good girl with her legs crossed and her needs cut out.

but hunger doesn’t die just because we stop feeding it. it waits. tucked in the marrow. buried under motherhood, under trauma, under everyone else’s needs. and when it came back, it came back loud. holy. sacred. messy. mine. not the kind that begs to be touched, but the kind that chooses when to be open. when to burn. when to bloom.

i don’t create on onlyfans to be looked at. i create to be free. to tell the story my body was never allowed to speak. to move without flinching. to make art out of ache. to take back what was taken. this isn’t about seduction—it’s about sovereignty. i am not for sale. i am not a performance. i am a living, breathing reclamation of every time i was told to cover up or sit still or be grateful someone wanted me at all. fuck that. i want me. i choose me. every curve, every scar, every flicker of heat that reminds me i’m still alive.

and if i am touched, it is with consent. with reverence. with earned permission. my sensuality is not passive—it is power. it is poetry in motion. it is a flame i no longer apologize for. because this body? this body holds grief, birth, resurrection, orgasm, and war. this body has been stolen from and returned to and rebuilt again. this body is not a playground. it is a temple. and i am holy in my hunger.

so no, i will never shrink again. i will never starve myself of my own permission. i will never make myself less digestible just to be loved in half-measures.

i am sacred.
i am sharp.
i am starving—and finally, fed.

with ink + bloom, 🌻