autumn hunts make for winter feasts

I told you to come here and you asked why.

I have elegant answers.

And brutal ones.

But my chosen answer is simple, and it is a question of its own.

Which of the inner voices you hear is the loudest?

Your brash and fearless, finding-trouble in the cookie-jar voice?

Your cautious, should-I-maybe-better-not voice?

Your shy, curious, unsure-yet-precocious voice?

Or mine?

It is not mine.

My voice is never loud.

It never shouts. It does not demand. It won’t insist.

It doesn’t have to.

Because my voice is the voice of your unexpressed desires. It is the language of hungers too powerful to admit because voicing them only makes them stronger.

My voice describes the delicate cruelty of  fingernails tracing intimate curves. My voice makes you feel teeth catching nipples with deft intent and hungry succulence. My voice makes you see yourself at my feet, my hand tangled in your hair to focus your gaze upwards.

My voice is a current, a fast-moving river that outraces your patience.

It has found fertile ground in your repressed hunger. It’s roots go deep, finding a home in the subliminal and divine of your unspoken self. It’s vines are strong and they wrap around your limbs like armor. Bound, you are stronger than you’ve ever been. Freer then you let yourself dream to be.

My voice is a doorway. 

A cliff.

And it wants you to fall.

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