Lust is not a feeling. It is a creature. It hides in the spaces between touch, in the heat of a glance, in the pulse of a heartbeat. It wears a thousand mouths but speaks only one word: More.
In ancient circles, they whisper of a fabric stitched from the skin of those who could never be satisfied. This fabric lives. It breathes. It feeds on the desire of others, but it is never full.
The more you wear it, the more you disappear. Your face fades. Your voice silences. You become a walking hunger — faceless, nameless, burning.
People don’t desire you. They desire the mouths. They crave the hunger. And you start craving it, too. Not for love. Not for connection. But for the raw, violent need to be wanted — even if it costs you your soul.
The shirt can never be removed. It clings to your bones. It becomes your skin. It speaks for you. It smiles for you. It loves for you. And when it’s finished, it will wear someone else.
