Shannon Lemire
Bio
Writing is a part of who I am.
I go back and forth between handwritten lengthy journaling and sitting here glued to my laptop.
As inspiration hits, I write and follow the intuitive nudge.
You'll see many sides of me here.
I hope you enjoy.
Stories (13)
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The Ferrari Has Feelings
There’s a woman I’ve been my whole life — a woman built from speed, instinct, and self‑possession. A woman who learned early that the world respects the shine more than the story, the performance more than the truth. So I became the Ferrari. Not by accident, but by design.
By Shannon Lemire30 days ago in Confessions
Don't wait.
Dithering dilly-dally ducks drown darkly.
By Shannon Lemireabout a month ago in Poets
Dialogue Without Words
The three sit together, a loose triangle of bodies and histories. Two talk. One listens. Or tries to. At first, it’s nothing unusual — familiar rhythms, familiar roles. But then something shifts. Not loudly. More like a subtle drop in temperature, the kind you feel before you understand.
By Shannon Lemire2 months ago in Confessions
Clear Head
Friday, January 17, 2025, was the last day of my ingesting any marijuana for six months. I wanted to run a test on myself to see if I was relying on the good old Mary Jane to function in my life. I wanted to see how my reactions and actions changed - if at all.
By Shannon Lemire12 months ago in Poets
The Woman.
The Woman: A channeled message on Divine Feminine power I remember when he first sent me the photo. The moment it lit up my screen, goosebumps rose along my arms — not from fear, but from recognition. Her rawness stirred something ancient in me, something I already knew but hadn’t remembered in a long while.
By Shannon Lemire3 years ago in Longevity
A Sandpit and Leather.
The night began innocently enough, or at least that’s what I told myself as we wound through the back roads with the sunroof open and the warm summer air curling around us. The sky was that soft, late‑day gold that makes everything feel like a promise. I lit a joint, and he drove with that quiet confidence he wore like a second skin, while something slow, steady, and unspoken simmered between us that neither of us tried to hide. When he turned off into the alcove of oak trees near the sandpits, I knew the place instantly. He’d spent years riding dirt bikes here; I’d hiked these trails more times than I could count. It felt like neutral territory, familiar to both of us, yet charged with possibility.
By Shannon Lemire3 years ago in Filthy
What the Woodshed Heard
What the Woodshed Heard I wake before dawn, sometime around four, the house wrapped in a kind of sacred quiet. I slip out of bed without disturbing R.S., knowing he won’t even register my absence. Downstairs, I make coffee, finish the dishes left from the night before, and layer myself in big boots, long underwear, and a hoodie — my makeshift armor against the 34‑degree air.
By Shannon Lemire3 years ago in Filthy
