Magic With Teeth
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I don’t fall into this industry.
I circle it.
Clouds gallop at my side,
sky bruised and breathing,
my horn a thin line of intent
against the weather.
Below, desire is stacked in rooms,
sold by the hour,
polished until it forgets itself.
They call me rare.
Dangerous.
Expensive.
As if that isn’t the point.
I land just long enough
to tilt the power.
To remind men that fantasy
is sharper
when it chooses you back.
An eternal unicorn, not for sparkle,
but for survival.
Magic with teeth.
Softness with velocity.
Then I lift again,
leaving a pause in the air,
and the quiet question
of why everything else
now feels unfinished.
Carmela 🦄☁️
circling, always
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