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.
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