My apartment isn’t filled with grand statements. It’s the small things, subtle, placed deliberate, unmistakably me … things that give it its pulse.
There is a chair no one sits in unless I say so. My perfectly arranged stack of notebooks, each one containing a different version of my mind.
The scents I choose, warm, dark, intentional .. all hanging in the air the moment you walk in.
My favorite mug says “I am a dominatrix, not a magician”. I have a mirror placed exactly where I can catch myself admiring myself before stepping outside and remember that I am that bitch.
Fresh flowers I buy for myself, to beautify the room, mark it as lived-in, chosen, claimed - Alive.
Lots of pens. A certain spot on the couch that feels like my command center.A throw blanket that looks soft but has a weight to it, like a corset - a sense of being held.
Keys placed in the same hook since I moved in, not out of habit, but because order calms me in a way nothing else does.
None of these things scream for attention.
But together, they create a space that doesn’t just look like mine it behaves like mine.
It’s a home that reflects the way I lead:
quiet, intentional, unmistakably in control.
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