Her Imagined Perspective
He watches me like I’m myth—
not just beauty, but omen.
I feel it in the hush
between shutter clicks,
in the way his questions
circle my edges
but never land.
I notice him.
Of course I do.
His silence is louder
than the flash.
But I’ve worn this armor too long—
lace and leather,
dark lips and darker thoughts.
They keep me safe,
keep me distant,
keep me whole.
Still, when he speaks in riddles,
when his words brush my skin
without touching,
I wonder—
what if I let go?
What if I let him see
the girl beneath the gothic?
The one who wants
to be wanted
without being claimed.
Nov 5, 2025
Nov 5, 2025 at 6:48 PM UTC
Her Imagined Perspective
He watches me like I’m myth—
not just beauty, but omen.
I feel it in the hush
between shutter clicks,
in the way his questions
circle my edges
but never land.
I notice him.
Of course I do.
His silence is louder
than the flash.
But I’ve worn this armor too long—
lace and leather,
dark lips and darker thoughts.
They keep me safe,
keep me distant,
keep me whole.
Still, when he speaks in riddles,
when his words brush my skin
without touching,
I wonder—
what if I let go?
What if I let him see
the girl beneath the gothic?
The one who wants
to be wanted
without being claimed.
Third in a series of poetic reflections on desire, distance, and the art of seeing
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