I Want to Be Held in the Shape of a Rule
Tell me what you expect of me. Not to control me, but to cradle me.
I don’t want freedom—I want direction. I want ritual. Rhythm. Something that wraps around me like rope, like rules I’m desperate to obey. Because when you give me structure, I stop unraveling. My body softens. My mind hushes. I stop performing and start belonging.
I want to know the words you like to hear and when to say them. I want to know where my knees go, how long to hold eye contact, when I’m allowed to whimper. I want your rules to live in my body. I want to break apart in the places you’ve told me it’s safe to.
And when I do it right—when I serve well, kneel properly, ache exactly how you want me to? That’s when I shine. That’s when I feel owned in the most sacred way. Not because you took me, but because I offered myself fully and you knew what to do with me.
Structure doesn’t dim me. It sanctifies me. It tells me: You don’t have to carry yourself alone.
