I don’t ask you to be gentle.

I ask you to mean it.

To press me past the edges

where I stop pretending I’m whole.

You say kneel, and I drop—

not because I’m weak,

but because you strip the world away

until there’s only truth:

your voice,

my breath,

the space between pain and worship.

I wear your grip like scripture,

written in fingers, in teeth,

in bruises blooming like dark flowers

on skin that was too quiet before you.

You ruin me beautifully.

Not with violence—

but precision.

Every slap, a sentence.

Every choke, a sermon.

Every broken moan,

an offering.

You fuck the fear out of me.

You take what I hide

and lay it bare

until I beg with no words left.

This isn’t about control.

It’s about surrender.

Not to a man—

but to the god you become

when you see me

and still want more.

I come undone

on the altar of your hunger.

Not for love, not for safety—

for the holiness

of being owned.

So keep me here.

Collared. Bound. Split open.

I don’t want escape.

I want to belong

so completely

it scars.