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Flame of Desire
Heat that does not apologize for its invoice.
Desire is not a crown. It is combustion with paperwork — ardor, fervor, the alphabet of hunger spelled by a body that refuses abstinence cosplay.
The flame grows because you feed it. Kings and queens are for postcards. What you get is pulse, sweat, the tear in the fabric you pretend was accidental.
Zeal outlasts hope some nights. That is not morality. It is chemistry winning the argument.
The fabric tear is still there in daylight.
JV · Dark Heart Labs