This is not placement.
This is receiving him without direction.
This is not control.
This is not me saying when and where and how.
This is me on my knees and elbows, breath gone,
having him supply everything that's mine.
Because sometimes I don’t want to own him.
Sometimes I want to be wrecked.
Not like porn.
Not like a scene.
Like history.
Like bone.
Like the kind of fucking that splits you open and stitches you back together without a needle.
He wasn’t always like this.
He was tender. Careful. Gentle.
He would hold my hips like bone china he thought he might break.
