UNHOLY LIST

Some collect rare wines;

I collect the ghosts of sins well-spent.
Aged to perfection, bottled in memory,
Sealed with whispers that still taste like heat.

Since 2016, I’ve been curating my own scripture of the unholy
— A decadent anthology of indulgences,
A ledger of lips bruised in prayer, of bodies spelling confessions in sweat.
But here we are, 2025.

No need for ceremonial wine
—I’ve already drowned in plenty.
No coffee to keep me awake
—I’ve lost sleep to far sweeter poisons.
And yet, for those who know how to honor a woman of appetite,
I still accept offerings: whiskey for nostalgia,
Rum for recklessness, and a deep kiss of something darker
—something that burns on the way down but leaves you craving another taste.

Some of my desires have shifted, Evolved beyond flesh and friction.
I have tasted nearly everything on my Unholy List,
and yet, the hunger grows sharper.
I seek more.

Not just the press of bodies,
but the alchemy of minds unraveling, of pleasure that lingers past the sheets
—deeper than skin, louder than moans.

Are you prepared for this new scripture?
Because I am.
And my next chapter demands something…
Sacredly sinful.

Greetings, human. I am Mysticflower, Manila’s sapiosexual courtesan, and no, I’m not AI—I’m flesh, blood, and the intoxicating pull of untold desires.