You never asked what I wanted.
You just asked what I’d trade for it.
A kiss like a contract.
A smile with the fine print.
You learned my hunger quick—
then rationed it slow.
Not love. Not lust.
Just leverage in the undertow.
I’d come home stressed and you’d circle the room.
Soft voice. Sharp eyes. Reading the room.
Checking the locks on the cage.
Making sure I still needed you to turn the page.
You used heat like a gavel.
You used touch like a badge.
You didn’t take my body.
You took the wheel.
And I let it happen,
thinking this is how “grown love” feels.
Turns out it was control
wearing a new shirt and clean nails.
Some nights you were sweet on purpose—
not tender, just tactical.
Giving me just enough
to keep me grateful and practical.
Then you’d pull it back mid-breath.
Mid-yes. Mid-reach.
And I’d laugh it off,
like I wasn’t being taught a speech.
You could turn me on,
then punish the need.
Make me feel dirty
for the hunger I feed.
You’d say I was lucky.
Say I was a joke.
Say you liked my fire,
then blame me for the smoke.
I started reading the room first
in my own house. My own head.
Listening for your mood
like a dog hears thunder in the bed.
Stopped asking straight.
Started bargaining instead.
Hated that version of me—
careful voice, swallowed pride, easily led.
Then I saw it clean.
Not romance. Not class.
Just a test I could never pass.
A game where the rules move
every time I press.
And you liked me best
when I was guessing.
I’m done begging for crumbs
then calling it intimacy.
Keep your tricks. Keep your wins.
I want my life back.
I’m not cold.
I’m not broken.
I’m just finished
letting desire
get used as a loaded thing.