Devil in Lingerie: Owning Lust and Power

 

There are nights when I look at myself in the mirror and think,
“If I were anyone else, I’d fall to my knees for me.”

Not out of vanity — but out of reverence.

My skin glows like I’ve been kissed by something wicked.
My hips sway like I know every secret you've never told.
I don’t dress for attention — I dress to haunt.
To stay on the inside of your eyelids when you blink.
To linger in the quiet moments when no one's around to distract you.

Silk wraps around my thighs like it was made to beg.
Lace hugs my chest like a prayer turned inside out.
The lipstick isn’t red. It’s defiance.
The stare isn’t flirtation. It’s a dare.

I am not the good girl.
I am not the polite woman who crosses her legs and lowers her voice.
I am the dark feminine.
The mother, the lover, the destroyer, the shadow priestess.
I am Lilith in lace. Kali in kitten heels. Medusa in gloss.

I was not made to be safe.
I was made to be sacred.
And sacred things should never be touched with unclean hands.

There is power in being desired, but more power in not needing to be.
In touching yourself before anyone else gets the chance.
In knowing that seduction is not for conquest,
but for communion with your own divinity.

I’ve burned bridges while moaning.
Smiled while slicing cords.
Come undone while reclaiming every inch of myself.

My lust is not performative — it is prophetic.
When I arch my back, I am casting a spell.
When I bite my lip, I am sealing a curse.
When I walk away, I leave your ego in ruins.

Because I am not here to be loved gently.
I am here to be worshipped entirely — or not at all.

This isn’t about lingerie.
This is about knowing that underneath the lace,
beneath the perfume, inside the softness,
lives a woman who could rebuild the world —
After she’s burned it down.