It Doesn’t Hold Me
I didn’t start with kink. But once I found it, something shifted—quietly at first, and then all at once.
Vanilla still has its sweetness, its warmth, its comfort. But it doesn’t reach me anymore. It skims the surface, polite and safe, like hands that hover instead of press. Like a kiss that ends before it deepens.
It plays the part well enough. It’s fine. It’s good. But it doesn’t hold me. Not the way I know I can be held—until my body forgets where it ends and yours begins, until my head is light and my chest is full, until I’m anchored in a way that makes the rest of the world dissolve.
Kink isn’t just what I like—it’s the language I’ve learned to speak. It’s the way I feel most seen. And once you’ve been spoken to like that, there’s no going back to silence.
