“I could have anyone,”
they say it with a smile,
as though I am something to be won,
as though my worth is measured
by the hands that reach for me
and the voices that whisper lies.

“The boys must line up for you,”
my grandmother said it once,
her words innocent, hopeful,
not knowing how hollow they would become.
And yes, they line up –
but not for me, not really.
They come for the body,
for the curve of my waist,
for the lips that smile but don’t speak.
They come for a flame
they never intend to keep alight.

They take.
Their hands find warmth
while my soul freezes,
the emptiness seeping into my bones.
They burn with borrowed fire,
but I am left cold.
Every touch is a theft,
every kiss a reminder
that I am more –
and yet, somehow, I am not enough.

I let it happen.
How could I not?
I grew up in rooms where love was silent,
where warmth was a stranger
and hearts learned to beat quietly.
So I became a performer,
a silhouette in their fantasies:
a neckline just low enough,
a voice soft enough to please,
a presence fleeting enough
to never be a burden.

I can have anyone tonight.
Someone to hold me,
to whisper sweetness in my ear,
to promise nothing and take everything.
Someone who sees only skin,
who thinks the glow of my body
means there’s no darkness within.
But when the night ends –
what remains of me?

The sheets grow cold.
The mirror reflects someone I don’t know,
someone whose worth lives only
in borrowed moments,
whose beauty is a currency
for those who will never stay.
They touch me like fire,
but no one dares to step into the flames.

I am enough to want,
but not enough to choose.
I am the pause in their chaos,
the silence they fill with their hands.
I am seen,
but never truly known.
I am held,
but never kept.

And it breaks me –
the weight of their leaving,
the knowing that my soul is too vast
for their shallow hearts.
I want more.
I ache for more.
For someone who doesn’t line up,
who doesn’t take
and vanish into the dawn.

But here’s the truth –
I can have anyone I want,
except someone who stays.
I can light a fire in their veins,
but they won’t see
the embers burning in mine.

I am not just a body.
I am not just a moment.
But to them, I am only that:
a breath, a flame, a flicker –
gone.

And when the night ends,
I remain.
Cold.
Alone.
And aching to be seen –
not for what they take,
but for what I am.

More than a moment.
More than their eyes will ever see.
More than they will ever hold.