Secret of my empty hands

My hands are outwardly empty, but in truth I hold all of myself in them – the essence of my femininity – my submission. It is a gift waiting to be discovered. Waiting for the one who will notice it and take it. No one like that has appeared yet. No one has yet looked at me in such a way that I feel I no longer have to be strong, that I can simply surrender. Fall to my knees without unnecessary explanations.

Sometimes I dream that someone will change my name. To something intimate. True. Ambiguous. Unobvious. To a word that sounds like command and tenderness at the same time.

It is not about pain. It is about not having to pretend anymore that I am whole, when in truth I am a living, walking expectation.

Readiness for nonexistence

There are days when I feel empty. Inside. But it’s not about feeling stupid, worthless, or anything like that. It’s an emptiness marked by anticipation. Some deeply hidden, invisible-to-the-outside part of me is waiting impatiently to be shaped by another’s will. That’s it. Nothing more, nothing less.

Depression? No. It’s not depression. Despair? Also no. It is an exceptionally painful, but also very peaceful – despite all the tension that accompanies it – readiness for nonexistence in solitude. And in that readiness there is something almost mystical. Because there are things I cannot give or take by myself, just like that. And I’m not talking about sex now. It’s primarily about direction. About the right to “become less”, in order to be able to feel more.