I want for a lover who embodies every so-called and defined “feminine” thing that I can’t have.
But. I don’t want it sealed up in the packages this day and age package them for me in. I want them without walls and bounds. I want them piece-meal and pulled apart and put back together however they collide. I want them authentic and raw and real.
I long for them like needles under my skin to inject the drugs I crave. I’d beg you to give them — if only I could find you who have them and hold them in the boundless ways I speak of. In the jumping-off-ledges not-really-thinking, no-looking-back ways I am dreadful desperate for.
I want short skirts and knotted ribbons and pretty painted things. I want fishnets and lipstick. Smooth hairless legs and soft downy-haired breasts. Fragile arms and wide hips to press me down.
I want to sweat, be slick, be wet with blood-flow. Pink and red and purple-hot flooding, rushing, crashing against my skin. Blue blood down under layers and layers of skin, of flesh I can tear in. I want dancers and seducers and lovers not afraid to make a mess and make some noise.
You’ll inevitably mistake me, mishear me, miss my meaning, think you know what I need.
But, you’d be wrong. What I want are merely scattered pieces of a whole I have not yet found. Perhaps, it does not exist. No much matter.
What I really need is love. Passionate wild and unmixed. Without walls or bounds or the boxes we’re bound up in. Just take me for all I’ve got. Press me down hard and hot and show me things I’ve only ever dreamed.
Please, oh god, love me.
I’m desperate in need.