The definition of shiny is (of a smooth surface) reflecting light, typically because it’s very clean or polished. But honey, I’m not smooth and I’m not a reflection. I can be clean and polished but I’d rather be dirty and dark. Yet here I am shinning with all my depth, my too much, my sensuality, my addictions, my good and bad and my fucking feelings. Crazy is a conquest and baby I need to be conquered. Conquered stiff. Forcefully and thankfully. Map it out on my skin. March in the right direction even if it’s wrong. Follow the sun and what you seek shall be found. The glory that’s bound and restrained will be rewarded and bathed in the obscure of what is my mystic hunger. 

The flavors of the feast at this table are perversely plentiful. It never runs out. Watered down for convivence but never losing its luster or potency, even underground or hidden in secrets. Classified cravings and private showings always seem to bring the house down. A job well done indeed. Every single time. I mean, we’re all good at something and my something isn’t like the other girls. Unique and unmatched so far. Inquiring minds and prying eyes with big leash held hands reach out to the dark side of this moon. The other side glamouring the earthlings while the sires want to slay and play in the wicked. Both sides dancing together for the better or for the worse depending on the debauchery of the day and darlings that dare. 

I really can’t begin to bleed out the reality of how empty shinning can be. There is a relief that comes with the shadows which might sound grim but the suffering brings a heat to the cold. A tortured release that’s warranted, needed, appreciated, worshiped, coveted and allowed. Once more the shiny needs to be handled with care but at this point she’d just take being handled at all. Care or no care just fucking do it. Furiously. Fevered. Frenzied. Fistfuls. Feral. Do it already. Handle my business and close the deal damn it. Patience are a virtue that come with the light but the ache and the affliction that pair so perfectly with the wretchedness simmer and soak in the black. And waiting doesn’t feel so good but us turbulent shinnies are a kin to pain. So bring it on. Leave no casualties except what is left over afterwards. The sticky and stinging aftermath. Ruined and ravaged. Fallen to pieces. The shattered remnants of breaking the surface. The surface of the shiny.