I don’t want to tell you my secrets


I don’t want to tell you my secrets. And I don’t want to know yours.

I don’t want to reveal my trauma, my darkness, my sadness. I don’t need to know your fears, your hopes, your lifelong dreams.

I don’t want to know your middle name and you don’t need to know mine. I don’t want to meet your friends. I don’t want to book a weekend away.

I don’t want to have to fret about how I look or what I wear or whether I should have my hair up or down. I don’t want to go out of my way for you.

I want you to fit around my life, and me around yours. No sacrifice necessary.

I don’t want to have deep and meaningful conversations about the future, because I probably don’t want one with you. And you’re okay with that too.

I want you to fuck me, and then leave. A drink first, maybe, to pluck up some courage and boost my confidence. I want to be touched, softly or not. Kissed, softly or not.

Objectify me, a little. I can take it, because I’ve never had it. You don’t presume to know anything about me, and I like it. I always feel so known, so judged, before anything has even begun.

You’re not a cunt, obviously. I have your respect, and your desire, and that’s all I need.

You’ll owe me nothing.

I don’t need you, I just want you.

The world makes out like you’re so easy to find. Maybe if I looked how the world expects me to, you would be.


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