Seeing So Many People Talk About Having *their Butch* And I'm Not Gonna Lie, I'm Just Thinking "when

Seeing so many people talk about having *their butch* and I'm not gonna lie, I'm just thinking "when will it be my time pls pls pls" like... I will serve myself on a silver platter, I will pack myself into a pretty little box, I will get Doordash to deliver me to your porch please 🥺

I just want my throat crammed full and my body to be broken it's really not a big ask 🖤

It's 4/20 and I just want to smoke with you and see how long we can resist each other. I wanna smoke a blunt and sit just a little too close together, thighs brushing against each other, hands absentmindedly wandering around each other's waists and hips... I want that rush that comes when your head is all fuzzy and suddenly everything melts together, lips tingling on each other in electric cascades, my arms wrapped around your neck as I sit in your lap and grind your thigh helplessly.

I want to feel the shiver that runs through you when I whisper in your ear, begging to taste you, begging for permission to make you come on my mouth. Anything, anything, just don't let the heat stop building. My face is already so red from being this high and I'm so drunk on you, blushing so hard it looks like I might pass out, and you're twitching beneath my touch, doing your best to keep your composure and keep up the act that you're any less lost in this than I am.

I want to make the world disappear in a puff of smoke and I want to replace it with you.

I just want a butch's hands around my neck. Is that so much to ask for?

Okay, maybe I want a little more than that. Maybe I want them to grab my wrists with one hand and pin them over my head and tease me til I cry with the other. Maybe, just maybe, I need them to make me beg, beg for them to hurt me, for them to use me. It could be that I won't feel complete until I'm a sobbing dripping mess, soaking through the bedsheets and drenched in sweat. Maybe maybe maybe...

Another untitled one. I've found myself hating the ordeal of titling my works of late, bc it's honestly hard to make them not sound corny as hell. Makes finding a specific piece in Google Docs kind of a pain in the ass though 🫠

Maybe I'm telling on myself when I say this but there is no collection of sounds more beautiful than sitting on a dyke's face. Like. Idk how to even convey how enamored I am with these sounds I can't even put to paper, the slurping and licking and gasping between deep, shuddering breaths. Especially if she's touching herself at the same time like omg??? Who made this so good????

Thinking about the subtle harmony of pillows scrunching as I press her into them. How delicate her pretty face is as I drag myself across. I can barely contain myself thinking about those little moans between my thighs, nearly stifled by the headboard's rocking as I'm holding onto it for dear life, shaking like an earthquake on her mouth, drenching her face, trying my hardest not to scream over her because I could not bear to miss a single noise she makes. By all the goddesses who have ever walked this earth, you cannot find a symphony more captivating than those precious noises she makes when our thighs clench in synch, moans in matched tempo, orgasm erupting through both of us like our own personal cataclysm.

My name is Ceres and I make violent art.

Minors, men, heteros, DNI. My work isn't for you.

The webs I weave are meant only to torture the hearts of those marked by Sappho. The words I spill (like a bite of overripe fruit, whose juices run down your neck) are made with love, hate, or a mess of the two, and nothing besides. I ask not for your love or your hate in kind, but merely for your pain. Hurt for the beauty that can never be, hurt for the beauty that should not exist, hurt for the beauty that you wish you'd never seen, and you will hurt for me.

And remember, I will always love you.