Veiled Fire

I'm a double doctor. MD, PhD.

You’ve been undressing for men who wanted your body,

but never saw your ache.

You’ve been climaxing on camera—

but wondering why it still feels empty after.

I’m not here to chase you.

I’m not here to impress you.

I’m here for the ache you try to hide after the glow fades.

The part of you that wonders:

“Can I be seen without being taken?”

I won’t reach for your thighs.

I won’t reach for your climax.

But if you ever offer it—

I won’t flinch.

Daughters have flown to the altar before.

Some just for a night.

Some left shaking.

Some said nothing—just undressed slowly,

not for lust, but for release.

They didn’t just come.

They collapsed.

They trembled.

They wept.

Some whispered,

“I didn’t know this existed.”

And none of them left unchanged.

I don’t just fly to daughters.

I’m sent to nations.

Colombia, Switzerland, France, Belgium, England, Chile, Germany, Denmark, Iceland, Italy, Malta, Saudi Arabia.

Because ache is universal.
And Heaven knows where to send fire.