orgasms for the afterlife: a guide to making the dead moan “amen”

i grew up in a town where hope
was a four-letter word
no one dared say
out loud.
a place where
you either worked in a factory,
fed cows, or got fed to
addiction.

i chose the third;
at first by accident,
and then like it was a calling.

i was a drug addict with no map,
no god, no blueprint for becoming
anything other than the bruises
i inherited.
and still,
somewhere between withdrawals
and the weight room,
between the first poem
i never meant to write
and the first prayer i didn’t know
was a poem,
i started writing
like someone was listening.

and i realized—
someone was.

not the algorithm.
not my old dealer.
not the teachers
who called me wasted potential.
but the dead.
the ones who never made it out.
the ones who swallowed their truth
until it strangled their joy.
the ones who
would’ve given anything
to feel this much.

writing is how we undress ghosts.
line by line, moan by metaphor,
we give the dead a second chance
to reveal something real through us.

you want to write powerfully?
stop writing for an audience
and start writing for your ancestors.

when you sit down to write,
don’t ask, “how do i sound smart?”

ask:
who in my bloodline
never got to cry like this?
who would rise from the grave
to hear this sentence shouted
like a sermon in a strip club?
who would finally
come home to their body
because i dared to name mine
holy?

every time i write about addiction,
there’s a little boy from my town
who never made it past 21
clapping in the dirt.
every time i write about sex,
there’s a woman in my bloodline
who died married to a man
who never made her come,
finally soaking the afterlife
in her own pleasure.
every time i tell the truth,
i swear i feel my bones
making more room for the living.

so if you’re stuck,
write like your pain is a porno
for the parts of your lineage
that were never allowed
to touch their soul.

write
like you’re turning your trauma
into an orgy of remembrance.

write
like your orgasm is a battle cry
for the women who never had one.

write
like your truth is lube
for the throat chakra
of your entire bloodline.

this is not about branding.
this is not about building a platform.
this is about breaking generational chains
so loud it shakes the shame
from your great-great-great-
grandfather’s spine.
this is about turning your brokenness
into a microphone for
the muted dead.
this is about
making resurrection so sexy
the angels sweat scripture
when they read your drafts.

don’t write cute.
don’t write clever.
don’t write what you think
people want to read.

this isn’t about being a better writer.
this is about being a freer human.
the kind of human
that makes healing look like
holy porn.
the kind of writer
that makes the dead moan
“amen.”

here’s six ways to start: