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NixxyDreamShade(sub female)

A Poet's Bleeding Heart🖤📜🪶

I have been a writer all my life. Truly, from the moment I could pick up a pen to the time I learned to read: I have been pouring my soul out onto paper, smearing it and covering my fingers in ink and vulnerability as I attempt to articulate the ocean of emotion that crashes and flows through me.

I have never shared my writing in any kind of public setting... this is certainly new.
But.
A little encouragement, a little push, and it's wonderful the things I am willing to do to step outside my comfort zone!

I have found that I love reading others blogs, even more so when they act as a mirror. I get so lost in the words and soul of another, it's cathartic. It's the feeling of being "seen", "understood".
It's the "you are not alone"

I have been told my writing is well received most of the time, though, even if it weren't, I'd still want to share if for no other reason but the hope ONE person reads it and thinks "I am not alone."

"Moss" a poem about dipping my toes back into the world of kink.

10 hours ago. Monday, April 20, 2026 at 10:59 PM

Pinned

Moss

If I was the stone,

You were the hand that reached

out into the endless ether,

and plucked me

from the throng.

If I was the stone,

within Your palm I rested,

as You turned me over,

examining every ridge and groove,

ghosting fingertips across my jaggedly rough edges.

If I was the stone,

I could have sworn I heard You

exclaim how smooth I felt

beneath Your touch.

Though,

perhaps I must have

only

imagined it.

If I was the stone,

You were the deepest rumbling cloud,

splitting open a wide chasm above me,

unleashing a torrential downpour of potential.

If I was the stone,

You were the rain that saturated me,

leaving droplet fingerprints

over every inch of my surface.

You seeped deep into every

c r a c k

and

f i s s u r e

filling me up

completely.

For a moment,

I was whole with evanescent

bliss.

If I was the stone,

You were the hand that set me down

gently,

back into the rubble.

I wished desperately that stones had limbs,

so I could have tried to reach for You.

But stones don’t have limbs.

So, instead,

silent pleas fell from

phantom lips.

If I was the stone,

You were the moisture left behind.

An ephemeral reminder

there had – in fact – been a storm,

rain had – in fact – soaked into

the deepest

darkest,

most tender,

parts of

me.

Still,

I’d gaze into the clear cloudless sky,

the memory of raindrops

would leave me

utterly overwhelmed.

If I was a stone,

I’d be wet.

I would begin to feel the twining, climbing

roots

crawling, creeping, across my skin,

finding purchase.

Anchoring into every

c r a c k

and

f i s s u r e.

I don’t think I’d mind it though.

The lush, green, blanket that

consumed me

would be

hallowed.

A reminder,

lest I be dazed into believing

You only poured into me,

in my dreams.

If I was a stone,

I’d be enveloped in

moss.

Through soft, leafy, tendrils

I’d gaze at the sky with patient

reverence,

waiting,

waiting,

waiting,

for more raindrop

fingerprints.

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