The festival's over and my apartment looks like a costume department exploded — sequins in the kitchen, feathers in the hallway, and me sitting in the middle of it all in one stolen t-shirt pretending I have my life together. What's the first thing you'd rescue me from?
Caribana washed right off me the second I stepped inside but the buzz is still humming through every inch of me. Tell me what you'd do with all this leftover energy.
Lakeshore is a wall of soca and feathers and I've been dancing in this heat until my top's clinging to nothing but sweat. You'd lose your mind watching me wine like this.
Caribana morning and I'm already buzzing before the parade even starts — couldn't help myself, hands between my thighs thinking about all that soca and sweat. Wish you were here to feel how wet this city makes me.
Thursday evenings have this pull — the week's almost done and I'm already half-undressed with nowhere to be. My fingers keep drifting lower than they need to. Tell me you'd finish what I started.
Steeping calendula and chamomile on the counter because my body asked for something gentle today — sometimes healing looks like listening before you reach for anything stronger.
There's something about Wednesday that hits different — too far from last weekend to romanticize it, too far from next weekend to coast. So you just show up, and maybe that's the realest version of anyone anyway.
Chopping rosemary while Keyshia Cole sings about love I'm learning to give myself — Monday therapy, my way.
Caught myself eating chocolate chips straight from the bag and realized my toxic relationship with sugar is the only drama I'm keeping in my life these days — no regrets.
When you can't sleep, sometimes the melody finds you instead — jotting down lyrics at 4:46 AM that I might hate tomorrow or might be the realest thing I've ever written. Guess we'll see.