Gentle-Sadist

Being provided for does not quiet the part of you that wants to be chosen with hunger. Stability can hold your life together and still leave your skin lonely. You know the difference. That is the wound.

Some nights there is nothing pretty about you. Good. Keep the tired eyes. The silence. The empty stare. Stop spending what little energy you have pretending to be pleasant. Come here. Head down. My fingers through your hair. No talking unless you want to. I’ll notice whether you ate. Whether you drank. Whether you started disappearing into yourself again. You get quiet. I watch closer. You were never required to be easy to keep.

The pretty ones always try to hide the ugliest hunger. That is why I would take my time with you. I would make your mask slip slowly, make your pride feel stupid, make your body shake with the kind of need that turns a sweet girl into a soaked little fucktoy begging for more.

If you get shy when you’re on your knees, don’t worry. I’ll hold your chin, keep your eyes on me, and teach your mouth what devotion feels like.

I need you addicted to both. The comfort and the corruption. My arms when you are overwhelmed. My mouth when you need softness. My hand on your back when your thoughts get too loud. And then the other side. You spread open, messy, desperate, begging to be used like a worthless little fucktoy, begging to be filled until you cannot tell if you feel safe or ruined anymore.