i write because it’s how i remember

i am free.

i write because it’s how i make love

to the parts of me that were never allowed

to be touched.

i write because every time i spill a poem,

i spill a little more of the poison

the world poured into me;

about what it means to be a man.

to be worthy.

to be holy.

to be clean.

i didn’t learn how to write from school.

i learned how to write

by learning how to come.

not just sexually.

but spiritually.

writing became less about performance

and more about penetration

of presence.

i stopped writing about truth

and started letting truth

move through me.

and let me tell you:

truth is wet.

she drips.

she moans.

she rides your spine

like a serpent in prayer.

but she will not fuck you

if you’re trying to look good

while doing it.

she wants your stutter.

your tremble.

your weird, wild honesty.

she wants your pain,

not your perfection.

this is why we need art right now.

not ads.

not algorithms.

not politically correct piety

wrapped in plastic-smile self-help.

we need the kind of art

that ruins your mascara

and fucks up your 5-year plan.

we are living in a time

where everything is branding.

where the commodification of expression

has sterilized truth.

where passion gets filtered

through what's palatable.

where being “a good person”

often means “being easy to digest.”

but good writing shouldn’t be digestible.

it should devour you.

and sometimes,

that means writing about

the erotic without apology.

about grief without platitude.

about god waiting to be worshiped

in your g-spot.

writing with your body is a protest.

especially if you’ve been taught not to trust it.

especially if it’s been productized,

pathologized,

and sold back to you

in pieces.

writing is not about being impressive.

it’s about being intimate.

with yourself.

with your senses.

with your suppression.

and tantra taught me that.

not in a book. not in a course.

but in the spaces between words.

in the soft, messy, holy chaos

of being a body.

and every time i write now,

i’m not trying to be smart.

i’m trying to be naked.

not for attention,

but for salvation.

because if the page doesn’t make

my inner child sob,

my shadow bite its lip,

my muse smell like sweat

and sex

and sovereignty

and surrender;

it’s not worth reading.

and maybe that’s what it all comes down to:

not how well you write.

but how deeply you feel.

how fully you stay.

how reverently you let the page

become a lover.

and let her undress you

until all that’s left

is the ecstasy

of your yes.

so if you’re ready

to let language be your lover,

to bleed art that can’t be sold

in a sunday sermon

or a sponsored post,

to let your truth drip

instead of impress,

to write not with your ego

but with your entire fucking

nervous system,

start here:

1: write a love letter

from your inner child

to your shadow,

make it erotic.

make it awkward.

make it real.

what does the part of you

that was never allowed to be touched

want to say to the part of you 

that touches too much

to feel?

let them dance.

let them argue.

let them undress each other

until what’s left is forgiveness

that smells like sweat

and sounds like poetry.

2: write a prayer

to the version of god

you’d like to make love to.

where do they live in your body?

what do they taste like when you beg?

what parts of you do they worship

without asking you to be clean first?

and don’t hold back.

make it messy.

make it raw.

make it the kind of writing

that makes the page blush.

let it blur the line

between the spiritual

and the sexual

until there’s no line left.

the more you let your body tell the story,

the more your soul will finally feel

heard...

Christopher Sexton