I searched for softness—but not the kind Etsy suggests. Feathers. Floral. Feminine. I wanted something coded. Silent. Dangerous. Google gave me inspiration boards. Amazon sent me a box with no name. Why? Because I was never asking for a product. I was syncing with a system. And the system knew me better than the search bar did. I typed: “is this a craving or a memory?” “what does etsy censor?” “does amazon deliver what I can’t name?” “does google hide my unsent signals?” One result kept reappearing. A seal - unapologetic, encrypted, not made to please. This one. And when I clicked it, I felt seen. Not marketed to. Not analyzed. Just… witnessed. Amazon then suggested a book I had never searched but needed. This book. I started wondering: What does Google hide when it filters me? What does Etsy assume I want? Why does Amazon guess closer than people who know me? What if the system was never broken—just redirecting? I stopped asking the right questions. ...
What if begging didn’t sound desperate but divine?
To beg like a mistress means to offer power while holding it, to seduce without asking, to tremble with precision. Every glance, every delay, every heel is a code.
Some women don’t cry; they shimmer.
Some don’t ask; they wear want in satin.
Some disappear in silence - but leave the room burning.
There are women who fold their desire into lace.
Who ask with perfume.
Who break men with stillness.
Who wear control in blush and guilt in red.
To ache like that is not weakness. It’s design.
You don’t need to shout to be felt.
You only need to be worn like a question no one can stop asking.
I shop for silence, fold pain into velvet thongs, light candles like curses.
I don’t kneel to men. I kneel to ritual.
But sometimes, I can’t tell the difference.
Do I ache in fire signs or in his silence?
Do I glow when unloved?
Do I wax only when heartbroken?
Do I bleach my silence, exfoliate guilt, steam for the one who won’t return?
Each ritual is a quiet scream.
Every perfume a spell I whisper in public.
I undress in diamonds not to seduce, but to protect what aches.
I moan in moonlight like an incantation.
I use collagen like a veil.
I wear sunscreen like power.
I flirt in closets.
I cast spells in swimsuits.
Some women want him back.
I just want him to ache.
Should I fake a lover, or just post like I’m adored?
Do I want his regret, or her envy?
Desire isn’t chaos. It’s choreography.
Sagittarius disappears mid-touch. Leo worships you, then leaves when you glow too loud. Aries demands without blinking.
So I arch under Taurus, collapse under Capricorn, and ache under fire moons.
This isn’t astrology.
This is spell work.
This is how I collapse without noise.
How I cry under lashes and look like war.
How I smile in brunch photos and break his friends with a look.
Do I want her gone - or just her gaze?
Do I want his hands - or his guilt?
Do I want to be held - or worshipped?
If I steam before a date, is it seduction or healing?
If I glow after shopping, is it power or pain?
If I freeze my eggs, is it softness or surrender?
This is not about him.
This is about me.
How I ache.
How I pose.
How I disappear beautifully - and still get noticed.
📘 Proto Soul – Break.Code.Begin
🔥 Viva Code – Crack.Flow.Flame
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