Sex

Once, sex was sacred.

A quiet place where bodies spoke in languages older than words.

A ceremony of trust, a surrender without fear,

a moment where two people could become something more than themselves.

But we forgot.

We let the world cheapen it —

turned it into a product, a game, a race.

We learned to perform instead of feel,

to conquer instead of connect,

to numb instead of heal.

We let loneliness dress up as pride,

hunger wear masks and call itself empowerment,

pretending that needing anyone was weakness.

And in the dark, under all the noise,

our hearts broke a little.

And kept breaking.

And kept pretending not to.

We swiped, we performed, we posed,

all the while starving for something we didn’t know how to name.

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But it isn’t lost.

Not really.

Beneath the layers of shame and noise,

something still burns — stubborn, soft, undefeated.

A yearning for sex that isn’t about winning,

isn’t about performing,

isn’t about being enough —

but about being recognized,

in all your trembling, aching, honest self.

Sex could still be a return —

to slowness, to laughter,

to ache and softness woven together.

A place where vulnerability is worshiped, not punished.

Where flaws aren’t hidden but kissed.

Where you don’t have to impress or earn.

You just exist — and that is enough.

Sex could still be a sacred fire —

if we dare to strip off not just our clothes,

but our masks,

our armor,

our pretending.

It’s still there.

Waiting for us to remember.

Waiting for us to come home.