
October 15, 2025 01:33 PM
Subscribers
little miss roses
Thorns pressed into my hips; I didn’t flinch. I wanted to see if the red would spread.
3


I was not chosen by faith. I built my own altar from want .
Every word I write is a prayer with a pulse. Every image, a confession that got too loud.
I am author, artist, menace, muse — a good girl with holy intentions and filthy execution.
Pay your tithe, and I’ll let you taste devotion.
I was not chosen by faith. I built my own altar from want .
Every word I write is a prayer with a pulse. Every image, a confession that got too loud.
I am author, artist, menace, muse — a good girl with holy intentions and filthy execution.
Pay your tithe, and I’ll let you taste devotion.
