In the humid silence of the bedroom, where the clock strikes three and the walls seem to breathe, a girl unlearns the world. I once thought that to be wanted was a hunger satisfied by hands, a frantic map drawn in the dark; but I was mistaken. To be wanted is a surface itch, while to be desired is a vertical drop into the abyss, a quiet hand that finds yours when the demons, those small, sharp-toothed guests of the soul, refuse to sleep. I have tasted the holy convergence where the flesh and the spirit meet, and I have felt the cold, thin air left behind when that fragile jar of stars shatters.

Listen to me: your body is not a thing to be possessed like a trinket or a chair. There is a universe nestled between your thighs, yes, a garden of heavy fruit, but beneath your skin exists an equally vast cosmos, a frantic beating of wings and a language without words. If they do not wish to walk through the fire of your thoughts, they have no right to the warmth of your skin. Do not surrender the sacred chambers of your heart to a tourist of the physical, for to be touched only where you are soft is a loneliness that no embrace can cure.

Your spirit is not a transient thing; it does not exist in fleeting moments, but in the heavy forever of the now. You must preserve the sanctity of your own mystery, turning your heart into a sanctuary for the one who seeks to name the constellations of your being. You are a multidimensional occurrence, a shimmering landscape of vulnerabilities and hunger. Do not allow yourself to be read as a single, flat page; wait for the one who is brave enough to drown in the entire book.

©️ Beatriz Esmer