"Burning Desire" – Available On SuperRare
She saw straight through the polished mask I’d spent years perfecting in the mirror - the careful, guarded version I sold to the world. And I saw her the same: the raw, unguarded self she kept locked behind quick subject changes and deliberate silences. Neither of us had any intention of letting someone in this deep after the wreckage of our pasts we’d survived. Our inner punk kept screaming don’t soften - a private rebellion that held the whole damn world at arm’s length. But those quiet nights rewrote the rules. Her eyes locked on mine and refused to let go. The old instinct to flinch kicked in… and I didn’t look away. She didn’t deflect when the questions cut personal. Every crack in our paper armor let in more light, and once the light touched those hidden places, there was no sealing them shut again. We were daring each other to stay - to let the paper armor catch fire and burn away until the real skin underneath finally showed itself unapologetic in the light.
That’s exactly what this piece is about: the raw essence of a love that refuses compromise - an anarchic bond that liberates rather than confines. The lovers, bound in paper-mâché armor, ignite flames that peel away their defenses, revealing the vulnerable, authentic selves beneath. In that exposure, love becomes rebellion, stripping the masks worn to survive and laying bare what’s been hidden for so long. Their surreal, long tongues intertwined - a symbol of fears overcome and now fused in love. Scattered through the background, punk quotes and imagery echoed our mental landscape - the constant internal monologue that rejected our inner fear. Framing it all, the sunset with piercing rays turns what could feel harsh into something romantic in the punkest sense.
If fear had won, we'd remain strangers to ourselves and each other. Never silence the inner punk - it’s the only path to the love that refuses to compromise.
I can’t stand summer. It rolls in like a grim reaper with a tan, swinging humidity and sunshine like a meat cleaver. The air turns thick, sticky - like breathing through a mold-rotted rag - and suddenly everyone’s joined a cult of sun worshippers, chanting the gospel of “good vibes” under that leering, golden stare.