I thought trembling was part of the ritual—
not from wanting,
but from wondering if I’d be wanted
when it was over.
I thought closing my eyes
was a form of escape,
not reverence.
That silence after
wasn’t peace —
it was inventory.
What did I give?
What did they take?
What part of me disappeared this time?
I left pieces of myself
on strangers’ hands
and called it connection.
I didn’t know
I could feel present in a moment
and still want more of it.
That being touched
didn’t have to mean being used.
That I could stay.
And then — you.
Your touch felt more like
“I want to get to know you,”
and less like
“I want to win.”
You made space for play.
You let me be
soft and strange,
messy and sacred,
silly and holy —
all at once.
With you, I learned
that intimacy doesn’t begin at the body.
It begins in the safety
of being seen
and still wanted.
With you, I didn’t feel smaller.
I felt returned to.
Like each time you saw me,
you handed a piece back —
a laugh, a truth,
a version of me I forgot how to trust.
Like maybe I was never broken,
just waiting for someone
who didn’t flinch
at the full weight of my tenderness.
And now,
I don’t leave myself
when I undress.
I arrive.
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