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Life is Your Birthright

I've been thinking about Death lately. In this era of school shootings and devices that can deliver suffering from any corner of the world right to our hands, I think my generation is very acquainted with the Reaper. The first time I became acutely aware of my own mortality was the death of actor Cameron Boyce. I am the same age as him when he passed. Someone I grew up watching on TV throughout my childhood here one day, gone the next. I was struck by how quickly a life can be extinguished. The pain of burying a child and living with their absence for the rest of your life. The death of 18 year old Nolan Wells has been circulating social media and local news circuits. The college freshman went to Horn Island with his white friends for the Fourth of July. His body was finally found the following Monday and identified Tuesday.  I remember the first time I came across the story, saw the pictures of Wells with his friends on Independence Day. Seeing that they were from Mississippi, my ...
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an ode to danny

I have a soft spot for the name Danny. Don’t ask why. I couldn’t explain it if I tried. I’ve always loved words and the ways they take up space. How some stuff your mouth with marbles, while others roll off the tongue smooth as sweet vermouth. Kind of like Danny. It’s a soft name. One anyone can take and make their own. There’s a little joy in the way my face scrunches up, a smile breaking across my face as I call out this sugar spun name. The way my voice goes up an octave as I draw out the final sweet syllables, denoting my affection.  Danny is the sweet cream sliding down my throat. The trail of kisses down my thighs. Bubbling giggles erupting from feather light tickles. Destined to be loved by me. XOXO, Michaela
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linger

i think about him. what it could/should/would be like. to hold his hand, to lean down and hug him. maybe even tilt his chin up to kiss him. i think about him. he was always sentimental. lingering when others were long gone.  what would it feel like? his mouth, fingers, and tongue? nimble and rushed or torturous and slow? i've only heard snippets. about pleasure and domination. of someone who enjoyed taking charge. but as far as i know, he's cuffed. so i'll continue to keep my distance.  while he lingers in the back of my mind. XOXO, Michaela
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you are not god

I never liked religion. The self-flagellation and force-feeding of beliefs. But most of all? It reminds me of my relationship with my mother. Kind and giving when satisfied. But any hint of disloyalty? Any allegiance to others or yourself is met with rage. Your self-confidence—once golden and plentiful—withers away. Your reservoir of joy now dried up. Those gentle embraces become harsh words with even harsher hands. And before you know it, you’re on your knees begging. Prayers become pleas to a creator who won’t answer. And I don’t know the solution. No magical words or ritual to make her come back. No arguing with something, someone so absorbed in their own power, they can’t see the child they have forsaken. So all you can do now is get up off your knees and leave. She may be your mother, but she is not your master. XOXO, Michaela
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In Bloom

It’s summertime, which can only mean one thing. My garden is in bloom. Maybe it’s the sunshine and gentle breeze. The lack of clouds. Being able to wear less clothes.  The petals of my pussy are unfolding, so there’s only one solution: Get plowed. May is my birth month. I’ll be turning twenty, entering a new decade of autonomy and pleasure. Making magic between my thighs. Dressed in lacy pink lingerie—marking my journey into womanhood. I've felt the gentle caress of another's lips and hope they explore both sets. June is for the daughters of the sun. Beat down by the heat of my lover's body, glistening with sweat and slickness. I hope to indulge in some loving. Sweet kisses and car sex. Once-in-a-blue-moon kind of pleasure. July is for the horny creatives. My patriotism is to sweat slick bedsheets and country music. I want to get fucked—sweetly and filthily in equal measure. My lover’s tongue caressing the folds of my pussy—cum tasting like nectar and cherry cola. He's ...
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kiss of life

kiss of life rubbing my thumbs over silk soft hands the prickly tickle of his stubble on my cheek giggling and moaning into his kisses his mouth, red rimmed from my lipstick XOXO, Michaela
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Ode to La Loba

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Happy May Day everyone! As spring deepens and summer slowly approaches, I wanted to write something divinely feminine and aged like a fine wine. This piece was inspired by Women Who Run with the Wolves  by Clarissa Pinkola Estés. Ode to La Loba The most unassuming saint. Patron of sunbleached bones. Some cracked, others worn down by the passage of time. Ankles, legs, knees, and necks binding together once more; Resurrected by your timeworn song. Your fanged smiles Scare off those who wish to subdue. Hunters incapable of dancing Under the silver tears of the moon. O Wild Woman,  Loba Luminoso, Your howling laughter echoes Across the golden horizon. Inviting us to follow. XOXO, Michaela
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