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.

If you thought this was a game of passing pleasure, learn the rules now.

By the end, there is no victory or defeat — only honesty, naked and heavy,

and a woman who remembers how to take back what was given away.

When the lights find us, I will still be burning,

not asking for rescue, only recognition.

Tonight I am the law and the mercy.

Tonight you will remember what you started.