#filthy-and-soft

I like making you videos. I like the way it feels to open myself, to press record and let the filth spill out knowing it’s for you. But sometimes, when you send me porn after, I want to scream. I want to tell you I’m not a porn star. I’m not the girls you send me. I’m a fat girl with stretch marks and scars and a body that will never look like theirs. And yet—I’m the one who gives you real. Not a looped clip. Not a fantasy staged under ring lights. I give you me: messy, alive, wanting. When you send me her, I feel like you’re saying I’m not enough. That my body is just a placeholder until I can match hers. But I can’t. And I won’t. What I give you is different. What I give you is raw and human. I wish that were enough.

I gave you the filthiest parts of me. Things I never even thought of doing for anyone else, I did for you. I recorded myself in angles I’d never dared, whispered words I didn’t know I could say out loud. You had all of me—my body, my obedience, my devotion, my hunger. I handed you my darkness and my ache like gifts, wrapped up and trembling. And then you vanished. No goodbye, no explanation—just silence. You left me alone with the ghosts of my own videos, wondering if they meant anything at all to you. You ghosted the girl who stripped herself bare for you. You ghosted the girl who wanted nothing more than to be enough. And I can’t decide which hurts worse—that I gave you so much, or that you didn’t even care enough to stay.