She said I’m done acting surprised by myself,
I’m done playing polite for a room that won’t care.
She traced it back past rings and good-byes,
past bedroom curtains and barroom air,
past every sermon in somebody’s mouth,
past every jealous stare, past every cheap dare.
She said my wanting never needed training—
it showed up early in my grown skin, already there.
I listened like a thief of honesty,
hands in my pockets, trying not to look scared.
She smiled like she’d finally stopped negotiating,
like she’d signed off on her own repair.
Her voice hit low, then rose like a match
that refuses to die in damp air,
and I felt my own pulse answer,
not worship, not rescue,
just truth that I can bear.
They called it hunger. Called it sin.
Called it thirst. Called it something to hide.
She said I tried their names on my tongue,
then spat them out, kept walking with my pride.
She said I wore their shame like a coat in July,
sweating lies, paying their price to stay inside.
Then I woke up and realized
my body isn’t a courtroom—
it’s a country I get to decide.
This appetite was born with me,
not bought, not bent, not sold,
heat in the blood, bright and bold,
not your joke, not your leash to hold.
I’m done with feeling old.
She said I’m tired of being “good,”
tired of being easy,
tired of giving what the world takes, then never gives.
She said I loved men who wanted my shine, not my truth,
men who praised my mouth, then hated what it forgives.
I learned to laugh on cue, learned to dim the lights,
learned to shrink my hips, learned to fold my ribs.
Now I want what I want in full daylight,
no apology, no softening, no counterfeit “please.”
I want my yes to sound like thunder.
I want my no to slam doors.
I want my breath to do what it needs.
I want hands that don’t flinch from my fire.
I want eyes that don’t label my hunger as disease.
I want kisses that don’t ask permission from strangers.
I want my own body back, piece by piece.
I sat there hearing her, feeling exposed by her clarity,
grateful and mean in the same breath—
grateful that she spoke it clean,
mean that my world taught her to doubt
what never asked for theft.
I wanted to say I’m sorry for the culture,
sorry for the jokes, sorry for the “calm down”
aimed at her depth.
Yet she didn’t want my pity.
She wanted witness.
Wanted a man who could stand in her weather
and not step left.
She leaned in close and said
I’m not your lesson, I’m not your warning sign,
I’m not your dare.
I’m not a headline for your buddies,
not a rumor you can weaponize,
not a secret you can share.
I’m a woman with a mouth and a spine,
and my lust is mine,
and I’ll wear it like clean air.
If you want me, want me honest,
want me loud, want me whole,
not as a bargain, not as a prayer.
I felt the room get smaller,
like her words pulled walls inward
till only the truth could fit.
I thought of every time I’d called a woman “too much”
when “too much” meant she refused to quit.
I thought of every time I mistook softness for weakness,
then wondered why the world felt split.
She looked at me like she could read the edits in my head,
then said don’t blink, don’t dodge it.
She said I don’t need you to approve.
I need you to respect the flame and not lie.
I need you to touch with intention, not ownership,
and meet my eyes when I ask you why.
I need you to stop calling desire a joke
when it keeps this whole damn world alive.
I need you to admit you’re hungry too,
then act like a man, not a judge in a tie.
When she left, her words stayed in the air
like smoke that doesn’t clear,
a scent that doesn’t fade fast.
I walked home with my hands open,
thinking maybe love is learning
not to be afraid of the blast.
Maybe it’s letting a woman name her own hunger
without turning it into a record
you can brag about at last.
Maybe it’s standing beside that truth,
steady and quiet,
while the old world throws stones
and asks how long it can last.