Power tastes sweeter when it trembles in your palm.
When it begs, when it breathes, when it rises to slip through your fingers like silk laced with panic.
When it says no with its mouth but yes with its body.
When it pretends it has choices.
It’s even sweeter when it’s defiant.When it glares instead of weeps.Because then, breaking it becomes art.
See, I don’t want power handed to me on a silver platter.I want it writhing on the floor, forced to crawl.I want it to hate me first, before it stars needing me.
Power is knowing they can’t f*****g breathe without your name on their lips and veins.
That’s not just power.that’s divinity with a dirty mouth.And I never said I was God.Because I’ve been known to play Him.
My little muse is trembling. And I’m f*****g savouring it.
Her delicate,
