GIGI MOVED TO PARIS, TEXAS
She didn’t ask permission.
She is black cherry bruised open on white linen. Lipstick smudged like a secret kept too long. The kind of heat that flickers first at the mouth — then lower. Cinnamon rises from her skin in waves — sweet, dangerous, almost devotional. Almond sweetness softens nothing, soft but unrelenting. She is hunger in a cathedral.
There’s something sacred about her, but it’s the kind that makes you nervous. The flicker of votive candles at dusk. She moves like a psalm rewritten in red ink — sacred and defiant at once. Her words don’t ask to be believed. They insist. She smells like amber and smoke and quiet rebellion.
She leans toward the flame like she knows it won’t burn her. Lets the heat kiss her lower lip. The room shifts. The match flares. The room inhales. Black lace. Red velvet. Grapes heavy in a brass bowl like communion gone feral. She tastes like sin you’d kneel for…..like a vow you swore you’d never break. She tastes like you might.
When she moves, it’s deliberate. Measured. Like stepping barefoot across cool cathedral stone. Like kneeling — not in surrender, but in power. Cherry-dark sweetness lingers low, beneath the ribs. Her pulse steady. Her mercy optional.
She is not temptation.
She is consequence.
When she walks into a room, it shifts slightly on its axis. Lust and love braided together. Mercy withheld. Cherry juice dark at the corner of her mouth. You don’t escape her. You decide to stay.
She is a guilt you don’t want absolved.
And the ashes she leaves are not ruin —
they’re proof.
Wear this when you want the air to thicken with something sweet and dangerous. When you want warmth to gather slow and low in the body — like incense rising — your breath shortening just enough to notice. When you want to feel claimed by your own desire.
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Head; black cherry
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Heart; almond, cinnamon
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Soul; amber + tonka
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