power, poetry & Passion

Prologue

You know…

Back in the day i used to be a party girl… I had a good balance of friends were with the right connections, I would be booth in and skipping the line.

Now, bit by bit, i lost all those friends. In the art of “self-progression” one by one they faded.

And i am here to… confess dare i say… I have no one to talk to about these things, I am ashamed with some, no one reads these things but alas i seek redemption

For this first guy, let us call him Sonma,

I met Sonma through a mutual, tall, handsome as equally pretty and the body of a demigod. Sonma being the African man he is was never truly open and honest about his relationship status and in my naivety i was already smitten, aroused and enamored. To be frank he had done little to nothing to gather and keep my attention but i am one less braincell dead when it came to pretty tall and pretty men. The chase with Sonma was slow and calculated. the winds whispered of a girl in his life but they were in a “situationship” i took that as my go ahead. The mountain i would die on, He was what i wanted to ride on.

To be fair, i tried to keep the lines of friends solid, for a brief moment, i yearned because i thought he saw me. When i needed help here comes Sonma to the rescue. For a girl whose love language is acts of service boy was he fluent. I drank every drop until my skin could do nothing but scream his name.

But i waited because I do not fuck my friend.

One cold November evening, he had invited me for a birthday party out of town. I was pleased with the invite. The journey there would be a tale for another day.

But it would rather come undone to find out a failed summer love would be in attendance. A dark mahogany of a man, Mogano. How did we meet… Tinder

Loneliness has a call, a smell, a sound. Loneliness after a heartbreak has a tender violence. Dearest reader, my story with these men would confuse you because it is one hard for me to narrate. But i need a voice.

I need to tell this imperfect story of mine, as messed up it is in my head is how i pull my thoughts into your hands.

For phantoms of me exist, with each men i have loved.

And it is a rude awakening to miss out on a friday night party, then watching random snaps from strangers just to see Sonma, Mogano, The Bouncer and Sonma’s brother all one stage.

Hence compelled to write Lost in Lust