Find the pieces of me that make me the most of who I am and gently shred them. The places I hold closest to my heart and lay them bare. Spread wide. Slip your fingers into the warm velvet of my vulnerability, the slick crevices of my mind where I hide parts of my heart so they can thrive.
Anyone can fuck me, but you, you can know me and knowing me is dangerous. It is the place where I am the most alive and you, you bring me to the brink of a death I cannot fathom, the kind that strips and shreds and rips the fear that drives my body to hide.
Words are visceral, slipping past my tongue into my throat where they catch and I choke, and still more. Give me more. The part of me that says enough is the part that wants to give you an out before we plunge into the filth, staining and dripping and pouring over until dawn floods the sky and we sleep in the quiet high of aftermath.
You can know me. You do, and it scares me, scares me in the way that I curl my fingers around these gates and wrench with all my strength until they open wide to let you in, cruel glint and tender smile juxtaposed as the light fades from my eyes and I turn to taste and sound and touch as my sight goes blind.
It’s in my mind, every piece that makes me who I am, every part that holds the guard of the places I want to go, and fear. It is my mind that holds the key to the locks that keep my words from reaching out to beg, to ask, that still my body from moving against yours.
I want you to hurt me because it gives my mind a focus point and everything else fades away. And I want you to take my sight and play with my mouth, the tactile sensations that come through my fingertips and lips and translate into words spilled out in broken scripts that start and end with please?
It is this that I cannot describe: what I would do because you ask is unnerving and yet. There are things I do because I need, things I do because I ache and crave and can taste the sweet metallic edge of pain against my lips and I remember, remember in that way that makes the craving grow, remember in that way that if I close my eyes, I can believe you are here. These sensations are somatic; they live in the cells of my skin and my mind will conjure them easily, a kind of frustration that you could touch if I could just show you the map.
But you know it. “Close your eyes and remember the way it feels in your mouth,” and I can, and would, hips rolling and steady throb building. “Record this. I want to see the faces you make.” and I would, buried alive in shame and relishing it.
You know me. You know the places you could go. When I need to hurt, I remember the sensation of your hands and teeth. Steel in my ass resets my brain. Sometimes I suffer for you, sometimes I suffer for me, but in the end, does it matter? Your name is so often writ along the lines of pain I can endure, dripping where you have spread me so I cannot writhe away from you.
Touch softly. Slow tease. Pull the words from my throat. I picture you pounding me until I cannot breathe. Make it rough, make it hard, make it hurt. I want to bleed from your hands. And more. Strip it away, this silly facade I carry, this tower of strength in my own autonomy with a band of metal wrapped, indelicate and unforgiving, around my neck. This feel like weakness, and I would wear my weakness at your hands and burn perpetually in shame, wet and dripping and full of desire, thick and hot in my mouth.
You know me. You know my mind, the lies I hide behind to keep myself safe, the projections of self I make to never let anyone see anything too real in me. You know. You know the places that I falter and the lines I walk, razor thin edges in perfect balance, the need for independence, the desire to please. I want nothing. Need nothing.
You know better.
I fuck myself on the edge of the pool of my own desire, toes barely grazing the surface and you, you could make me dive in, breathless and gasping and swimming in the delicious scent of my own shame. I want and need and crave with ferocity, singing in screams and pleas that make you smile that smile that never touches your eyes.
Would you still stop if I begged you to stop, or do you trust this color-coded system that takes this into the murky area of places you don’t go? Do you trust me to know the language of my heart, a breathless stoplight of autonomy? I can make my way to no when I don’t have to mean it. But believe me, love, I can always find my way to red.
Monomaniacism 