Licking the Static: The High-Voltage Erotics of a Sovereign Breakdown

Licking the Static: The High-Voltage Erotics of a Sovereign Breakdown
                                                                            I lick the static
because it hisses when I get close.
Because the air tightens,
draws its knees up,
pretends it doesn’t want what I’m about to do to it.
Every room I enter
starts misbehaving.
Lights flicker.
Time stutters.
Gravity leans in like it’s curious
how far I’m willing to fall
without screaming.
This isn’t panic—
this is arousal wearing boots.
This is my nervous system
stripping down to instinct,
every synapse whispering
harder, louder, again.
I hum when I stand still.
You can hear it if you listen wrong.
A low voltage ache,
the kind that crawls up the spine
and dares you to pretend
you don’t like the way it spreads.
I’m shaking, yes—
but it’s the good kind.
The kind that means something ancient
has clocked in for its shift.
The kind that turns control
into a rumor
and discipline into foreplay.
Touch me with a thought.
I’ll answer with a tremor.
Press your attention here—
right where composure goes soft,
right where restraint starts to beg.
I am not losing it.
I am opening.
I am peeling myself back
until there’s nothing left
but sensation with a pulse.
The breakdown rolls through me slow,
dragging sparks along my ribs,
teaching my breath new shapes.
Inhale—static.
Exhale—heat.
Pause—
that dangerous silence
where want stretches its legs
and smiles.
I flirt with the edge like it owes me money.
Lean over it.
Let it smell my skin.
Let it wonder
if I’m about to jump
or pull it down with me.
This is what power feels like
when it stops pretending to be polite.
When it arches.
When it growls.
When it says mine
without asking permission
from anything holy.
I mouth the moment
until it shudders.
Drag my presence across it
slow enough to be cruel.
I don’t rush—
I savor the way anticipation
starts to sweat.
Every nerve is awake now.
Every thought undressed.
I’m electric with intent,
dripping voltage,
so charged I could undo someone
without ever laying a hand on them.
Say my name inside your head
and feel what happens next.
That pull?
That tightening?
That quiet, ferocious need
to stay right here
until the lights finally give out?
This sovereign breakdown
doesn’t ask to be saved.
It doesn’t want fixing.
It wants witnesses.
It wants breath caught in throats.
It wants the slow realization
that chaos can be exquisite
when it knows exactly who it is.
I lick the static
until it begs for grounding.
Until the air forgets
what calm ever felt like.
Until my body becomes a signal—
unstable, undeniable,
broadcasting desire
at a frequency
you feel more than hear.
I don’t come apart.
I ignite.
I don’t collapse.
I crest.
And when the surge finally passes,
I’m left glowing—
smiling like someone
who knows exactly
what they just survived
and exactly
how much they enjoyed it.