Lately, it feels like my body’s been moving on its own —
mind off, body running wild.
I don’t know if it’s leading me somewhere good or if I’m about to crash and burn.
Either way, I’m strapped in. Ready.
Normally, I’m the mysterious type.
Silent. Withholding.
A little tease. A little flash, a little peak of what I’m up to and then nothing more.
If you wanted to know what I was up to, you had to earn it —
pull it out of me inch by inch, like foreplay stretched too thin.
But people have short attention spans.
I get it — I’m the same way.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Doesn’t mean I don’t care —
just means sometimes I need a hand, a tug, a reminder of what’s worth coming back for.
The real switch flipped when I heard someone say:
“Being mysterious is cringe. Don’t be afraid to share.”
And fuck — they were right.
What was I so afraid of?
That if I opened my mouth, if I let it spill, the illusion would break?
Good.
Let it break. Let it flood.
If you can’t handle me naked — raw, loud, dripping right in front of you —
then you were never meant to have me in the first place.
That’s where I’m at now.
This isn’t foreplay anymore.
No slow touches. No coy glances. No dragging it out until we both forget why we started.
I’m done being the tease in your imagination.
I’m here, pulling the curtain back, shoving your hand where it needs to be —
making you feel everything at once.
If what I reveal makes you uncomfortable — I hope you run.
Fast. Hard.
Expeditiously.
I’m not here to make you ache with longing anymore.
I’m here to be seen, swallowed, wrecked — or left alone.
Figure me out.
Stay.
Or leave.
But don’t you dare half-ass it.
Just fucking finish me off already.