When It Wasn’t Enough
He choked me until I went under.
I said yes. I wanted it. I was curious how far I could go, how far someone else would take me. I thought I’d feel something when I woke up—a rush, a high, that delicious chaos I sometimes crave.
But when I came to, I didn’t feel wrecked. I felt bored. Tired. Unmoved.
He looked proud of himself, like he’d impressed me. Like pushing that far proved something. But all it proved was that I can’t give my body to someone whose mind I don’t want to follow. I don’t care how intense it is if it doesn’t mean anything. If it doesn’t feel earned. If I’m not seen.
I learned something that night. I don’t just crave edge—I crave understanding. I need the kind of control that knows what it’s holding. That doesn’t just want to take me down, but wants to know who I’ll be when I come back up.
Because otherwise, it’s not submission. It’s just silence.
