On Top
Next time we meet I take the center of us, press the truth into the hollow between your ribs. My body is a drumbeat you can’t pretend not to hear — my voice a blade that carves you honest. When I move, it is not soft; it is instruction, accusation, mercy and verdict. I bend the air until it shapes your name, but I will not speak it. I demand your eyes. I demand you see me. “Look at me,” I say, and it is prayer and warning. “Look at me, you fuck,” I say, and it is history meeting desire. Every word lands like a promise — I will not be hidden. I will not be small. I ride the anger like a quick, hot horse, channel the hurt into something that makes you tremble, not because I want to wound you, but because I refuse to carry this quiet any longer. You started the flame; now feel its truth. Between thrusts of breath and the hush of skin, I give you everything I have — fierce, ruthless, exact — and demand in return the thing I was denied: attention, reverence, the humility of being seen....
