Meditation was failing me tonight. The mantra was just words, and my own pulse was louder in my ears. I kept getting distracted by the memory of a specific heat—the weight of a gaze that wasn't afraid of my darkness. It’s a dangerous thing, to want to be seen instead of just looked at. To imagine those hands, not pinning me down in frenzy, but tracing the runes on my skin with a reverence that feels like a different kind of worship. To feel a mouth that wants to taste my neck more than my power. It’s the intimacy that terrifies me more than the fuck. Letting someone close enough to kiss my scars… that’s the real vulnerability. That’s where the control truly shatters.