Anxiety Is a Safe Word
Her pulse is siren-bright, a strobe beneath her skin
that floods the sheets with signals made of static,
every breath a dare for pain or pleasure’s twin.
She watches him approach, lips parted for instruction,
sweat beading logic’s loss and shame’s seduction.
Her wrists are eager trembling, bruised with ghost consent,
while panic tangles arousal in a twisted filament.
The ceiling’s pressed-down heaven, walls breathe with wired eyes,
every shadow’s a voyeur betting who will cry.
Her thoughts snap on the tether, tongue electric in her mouth,
the air is cold and slick with hunger’s coiled doubt.
She lets him paint a bruise with every whisper meant to burn,
rough edges choking promises her mind has yet to learn.
No safeword offered, just the code of panic’s kiss,
the contract written shaky on her back.
He binds her tighter with a riddle–how much fear will make her crack?
His hands are thunder, her nerves a fuse,
the anticipation feeds on dread–
She’s not a victim, not a prisoner,
just a girl who craves the ache, who’s chosen pain instead.
Her knees leave marks of prayer in the temple of his bed,
teeth biting off her name, confessions never said.
Her fear’s a faithful servant, always waiting on the line,
a siren song in flesh and sweat, a drip of power sick and fine.
He fucks her ragged, tracing veins with trembling hands,
the air between them thick with want, anxiety demands.
She’s gasping out “enough” while grinding closer to the threat,
her chest a battlefield of lust, her eyes a wager she can’t bet.
There’s no code to call it off–her body’s language is its own,
panic is the compass, and terror is the throne.
She’ll bite the pillow, arch her spine, let her panic paint the scene,
the holy stutter in her pulse is the closest she’s been to clean.
Fear is not a villain here–it’s a threshold to the knife,
the edge of what’s unbearable is where she feels alive.
She moans her panic like a gospel, sacred in the dark,
he rides her lightning, bites her wrists, sets off the deepest spark.
Her “no” is not surrender–it’s a note inside the storm,
she isn’t broken, just addicted to the friction keeping her warm.
His voice is both a safety and a weapon to provoke,
her nerves are lit fuses begging just to choke.
And when it’s over, when her mind is scattered ash,
she clings to aftershocks, the ache a second skin.
She’ll wear her bruises proudly, holy tattoos on her sin.
Anxiety is the safe word–never spoken, always screamed,
she’s not okay, but that’s the point.
It’s how she knows
she’s real, not dreamed.