Writing his name feels like a panic attack.

I was fifteen. Young kid, lonely.
All I wanted was to be wanted,
And he wanted me.

He was eighteen. Average man,
He already knew me.
I went to his house and he gave me a hickey.

Little red mark on my neck, pretty pink,
On my skin it stayed, as I leaned over the sink.
Last night's dinner was going to come up.

The bra I wore to his house,
I've only worn it once since then.
Wearing it feels like putting his hands on me.

The jeans I wore to his house,
I lost them and decided not to look.
They were a reminder of the piece of me he took.

Everything we did, I said "yes" to.
He was the first guy to touch my chest,
I had to force my body to be mine again.

All I wanted was to be wanted,
And he wanted me.
Traumatized so beautifully.

Boy down the street.
All I wanted was to be wanted,
And he wanted me.

I just wanted to be wanted.
And he wanted my body.
Writing his name feels like a panic attack.

I want to know what it's like to be satisfied with somebody

to wake up in the morning next to someone who thinks I'm beautiful and be satisfied with me

I don't remember ever being satisfied with somebody, not properly.

being happy

old sentiment for kings and queens

that seemed steady in my heart

and then left me with a loss of trust

and a ring I threw in the lake whose attitudes I have learned to impart

yearning for satisfaction begs reaction of interaction and love and

old sentiment for kings

I can't write this with words softened.
You're up and down,
In a  Myriad of ways.
You see my heart, its doors opened.
You know me too well.
It's killing me, just a bit.
I wonder if you're what they cautioned.
Difficult to handle,
But you give me such a buzz.
You have too many pieces, horizons broadened,
But still, I still come along with you.
In a myriad of ways.