The Things I Begged For
I don’t remember the first time I begged someone to stay, but I remember the last. It was my ex, and he didn’t stay. I was crying. I was desperate. It was full-body, full-heart begging—the kind that leaves behind a kind of shame you carry even after the door has closed. I’ve never begged anyone to stay since. Not like that.
But I still beg. I beg in different ways now. I’ve begged to be their little girl in scenes, my voice cracking as I say it because I know what happens when they call me that. I know I’ll feel chosen. I’ll feel held. I’ll feel like I’ve finally earned relief. I’ve almost begged to be loved, though it never quite comes out that clearly. It usually just sounds like “Please…”
Begging makes me sob. It makes me feel disgusting and seen and free, all at once. Sometimes I don’t even know exactly what I’m begging for—just that I need it. There was a scene once where I was made to beg—really beg—and something about it cracked me open. I don’t even remember what I was begging for by the end. It started as something physical, some specific permission or touch, but somewhere in the middle of the pleading I lost the thread. I was sobbing, snotty, red-faced, raw. I think I scared him a little. But I wanted it. I wanted to be cracked open like that. It felt like pain, and also like permission. Like someone finally saw how desperate I was and didn’t look away.
Begging holds power for me because it strips away everything else. It’s not graceful or composed. It’s not strategic or safe. It’s just need, laid bare. And I spend so much of my life hiding need—watering it down, dressing it up, making it easier to love. But when I’m begging, I don’t care if I’m easy to love. I care if they hear me.
It’s a way of saying: look at me, this is what I want. This is what I’ll do to have it. Sometimes I beg to be used. Sometimes I beg to be held. Sometimes I don’t know which is which until it’s already happening. Either way, there’s power in letting go of the performance and just asking. Even when it’s messy. Especially when it’s messy.
I don’t beg as easily now—not because I don’t want to, but because I know what it takes out of me. Because there’s always the chance I’ll say “please” and they won’t stay. Or worse—they’ll stay, but they won’t hear me. Still, I crave it—that edge-of-my-voice pleading, the wild, red ache of asking out loud. Because in those moments, I’m not hiding. I’m not shrinking. I’m not trying to make myself easier to love.
I’m just me. Begging. And maybe, for a moment, being answered.
