from ✿ Petals of Kamila
I didn’t vanish because the words dried up. I vanished because the body demanded its due—raw, unfiltered, alive beyond the page.
I haven’t posted here in days. Not because the well ran dry, or because some invisible force clamped my fingers shut. No. It’s simpler, more visceral than that: I chose to live the intimate instead of scripting it. Why spill ink on desire when you can drown in it? Why trace the edges of a lover’s skin with metaphors when your hands can do the work themselves? This post—finally clawing its way out—is about exactly that: the deliberate pivot from observer to participant, from chronicler to the one being chronicled in sweat and sighs.
Let me back up, though I hate explanations that feel like apologies. I’m sorry for the silence—no, strike that. I’m not sorry at all. Silence here meant noise elsewhere. Meant tangled sheets and whispered negotiations in dim rooms. Meant my attention narrowing to the pulse under someone’s jaw, the way breath hitches when boundaries dissolve. For a few days, I let the unhinged part of me—the part this blog exists to unleash—run free without the leash of documentation. And god, it was liberating. Why? Because writing about intimacy is a kind of theft sometimes. It steals the immediacy, packages it into neat paragraphs, and hands it over to strangers. But living it? That’s pure possession. Mine, theirs, ours—undiluted.
Think about it. In this space, where I’ve built a altar to no-secrets, no-boundaries truth, I’ve always leaned into the explicit. The way a touch can unravel you, thread by thread. The erotic as rebellion, as a fuck-you to the polished facades we’re supposed to wear. But even here, on WriteFreely—my skin, my raw underbelly—there’s a risk in over-narrating. I could have sat down each night and typed out the details: the curve of a hip under my palm, the taste of salt on skin, the polyamorous dance of consent and craving that defines my days. I could have, but I didn’t. Instead, I focused on the act itself. On being present in the body, not hovering above it like some detached narrator.
And here’s the crux, the thing that’s been simmering in me during this hiatus: living the intimate life isn’t just about the highs—the orgasms, the connections that spark like live wires. It’s about the quiet refusals too. Refusing to commodify every moment into content. Refusing the pull of the screen when flesh calls louder. I’ve been in Spain long enough to let the sun-soaked laziness seep into my bones, working those half-shifts at the hotel desk, assisting my partner in ways that blur professional and personal. But intimacy? That’s the undercurrent. Polyamory isn’t a label I slap on for shock value; it’s a lived ethic, a web of relations that demands energy. Energy I redirected fully, for once, without siphoning some off for you, dear reader.
Don’t get me wrong—this isn’t a manifesto against sharing. If it were, I wouldn’t be typing this now, fingers still faintly aching from... well, from living. No, it’s a reflection on balance. On how the unhinged blog thrives not from constant outpouring, but from selective floods. Imagine: I wake up, not to the glow of a draft in progress, but to the warmth of a body beside me. Conversations in Spanish-tinged English, negotiations that feel like poetry without the need for verse. The erotic truth of it all—explicit, yes, in the arch of a back or the grip of hands—stayed private in the moment, only to ferment into this post later. Ferment, like wine from crushed grapes: richer for the wait.
There’s a slowness in this choice that I crave. In a world that screams for more-more-more, for endless updates and exposures, I paused. I let the boundaries (or lack thereof) breathe. And in that pause, I rediscovered why this blog exists: not to perform unhingedness, but to honor it. To say, here is my body as authority, unapologetic and unbound. But authority doesn’t mean exhibitionism every damn day. Sometimes it means closing the door, turning off the lights, and letting the senses take over. Touch over text. Sensation over sentences.
Of course, the irony isn’t lost on me. Here I am, writing about not writing. Describing the indescribable pull of the lived over the logged. But that’s the loop, isn’t it? The erotic refuses full containment; it spills back into words eventually. Like now: recalling the way a lover’s voice drops low in consent, the poly threads weaving without jealousy’s snag. The no-secrets ethos means I can admit this—admit that living it fully recharged me, made me hungrier for this digital confessional. Maybe I’ll post daily again—or maybe not. The point is, I’m back because the living fed the writing, not the other way around.
So, if you’ve been waiting, wondering where the unfiltered Kamila went—here she is. Not diminished by the gap, but amplified. The intimate life isn’t a story to tell; it’s a force to inhabit. And when I do tell it, like now, it’s because the overflow demands release. Bold, italicized, struck through where the hesitations creep in. No boundaries, remember? But with the wisdom to know when to dive in fully, words be damned.
