Without Knowing Her

Without Knowing Her

You wanna touch galaxies in her thighs

but never studied the constellation of her eyes.

Speak of "infinite possibilities"

like she’s some uncharted map

but you never bothered to learn the language

her soul bleeds in.

You want to dive

into the deep sea curves of her hips,

crave the current,

but can’t name the storm that shaped her tides.

Wanna inhale her skin

like sacred smoke,

but choke

when asked to sit in silence

and listen to her mind combust.

You marvel at the architecture of her form

but ignore the architect

the mind, the memory,

the moment she became a temple

not just a body.

You call her "mystery,"

but never read the prologue,

never traced the sacred texts

etched in her stretch marks

or the scripture sewn

between her insecurities and strength.

You want her body

without dancing with her shadow,

without facing the mirror

she becomes when she loves.

Without holding space

for her stories

that scream and whisper

in the same breath.

You speak of exploring her

like she’s a jungle

to machete your way through,

but forget

some forests are sacred,

and won’t open to anyone

who doesn’t arrive barefoot

and reverent.

See,

you don’t really want her,

you want access.

Passage.

Permission

without presence.

You want the fruit

but not the root.

The fire

without the prayer it takes to carry it.

You wanna taste the divine

but not become a disciple.

You wanna drink from the well

without honoring the droughts she survived.

You wanna be healed

by her waters

but won’t wade into her wounds.

But the woman who knows herself

is not your playground.

She is a universe.

And no man who does not love

her mind,

her body,

her spirit

all three,

holy trinity

will ever survive

her orbit.

So if you come,

come correct.

Come whole.

Come healed or healing.

Come humble,

or don’t come at all.

Because she is not for the curious

She is for the committed.

A spoken word poem by "tha Floetress"🦋