I harbor no illusions of perfection. It is not the flawless symmetry of a diamond that stirs my senses, but rather the raw, unbridled yearning that courses through my veins—a primal, animalistic desire careening over the edge of mere want, plummeting into the depths of voracious need.
Perfection, like the diamond, stands aloof—cold, unyielding, and unattainable. Its facets gleam with an icy brilliance, reflecting the light of distant stars. But it lacks the searing heat, the molten core that births creation. For within the crucible of passion, where desire meets vulnerability, lies the true alchemy—the forging of something extraordinary.
I seek not the flawless surface, but the fissures—the imperfections that reveal the fire within. Give me the flawed gem, the scarred heart, the imperfect kiss. Let me trace the jagged edges with trembling fingers, knowing that it is the fractures that allow light to penetrate, igniting the inferno of longing.

And so, I chase the heat—the smoldering intensity that defies reason, that burns away the dross of complacency. I yearn for the crucible, where desire melds with vulnerability, where imperfection becomes exquisite. For it is there, in the molten heart of creation, that I find my truest self—a flawed, passionate, and wholly alive being, forever seeking the heat within which perfection was made. 🙏🏾

©️Beatriz Esmer