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I’d like to say that I’m over it. That it’s passed. 
I’d like to say that I never find myself reaching out for someone to control me. 
To be ruled with an iron first. 
I’d like to say that I’ve grown past needing it. 

What I don’t like to say is that I’ve grown into wanting it. Grown into looking at my boyfriend with hopeful eyes, fingers crossed behind my back that his sweetness will turn sour. 
That he’ll make my freedom feel reserved.
That I’ll have the excuse to blame all my shortcomings and tantrums on his cruel disposition.


In between the acts of love, I cement myself in fear of heat.
I hate hearing myself. I hate watching my body contort itself - out of my control.  
I hate watching sex scenes. Aren’t they just a cruel reminder of what I willingly subjected myself to?
‘Willingly’ probably isn’t the right word, but even with time it feels unfair to call it something else.

In fear of heat, I am stuck in-between acts of love. 

The first night I ever sunk to my knees. 
The first night I held onto the backseat car headrest.
The first night I said I liked it.
The first night I cried before, during, and after.

Since that night I hoped my parents would get upset with me. So upset that they’d have no choice but to never let me see him again. 
“That’ll show her.”
It wouldn’t have.


How unclear yet so revealing.
Human nature is to revel in the push and pull of it all, right?
To despise everything in between, yet want to wrap yourself within in.
To hate him but love him. To miss him but…

The need for control is daunting.
For someone to tell me how to cut my hair. Where to move. Who to talk to.
The need for someone to pull my head back and whisper that I’m theirs.
To leave no room for choice. 


Maybe that’s why it feels unfair. In comparison to forceful, I was soothed.
Every move made by a conscious decision to not lose out on love.
Moving from the front seat to the back. 
Tears waved off as first-time jitters even though I knew,
I was giving into submission.

I’m still there.
Every time a kiss is shared. Every time lips linger. Every time heat lies within glossy eyes.
I’m there. 

I pray that what feels so sincere won’t look me in the eyes and say that I don’t love him.
I pray I won’t ever be tested again.
I pray because God knows my promises, and He’d see how easy I’d break them.
All in hopes that maybe this time, the control will be good. 

Only for me to see that I’ve moved past want and have seeped back into need.