I write this from the past. Or at least a version of myself that may change an hour from now, a day from now, a week from now. A month or a year. Lately, I feel like a shapeshifter—only held together by fragments and whatever little strength I can muster. But I am writing from the deepest well of myself, hoping it will reach you.
Maxence Cyrin’s version of Where is My Mind is playing on loop. And quite apt, too—because I seem to have lost it these past few weeks, or it has hidden itself from me. I have forced myself to sit down, reflect, and catch up on all these feelings and thoughts swirling about me. But right now all I can think about are your lips on my neck. Your tongue licking my skin. Your teeth, intent on marking me, telling the whole world I am yours. I close my eyes, wanting your mouth on me always.
I feel like a ghost merely passing through my life sometimes. I am here, and not here, and there’s a sense of sadness in that. The past few weeks have found me running after my life almost, trying to catch up. I think the universe is currently teaching me that growing into the person that I want to be is not going to be easy, and I’ve accepted that—but sometimes I just want to catch a breath, you know?
Last year when I was living out of my luggage, shuffling from one place to another, packing and unpacking my things, starting and restarting—I remember how it has taken a toll. I remember thinking, I just want to plant my roots. I just want to stop somewhere and not worry about having to move again. Each time I undo, each time I redo, I feel like I’m losing something.
Now I have a place. Now I have a home. But it’s not my flat I’m thinking about. It’s you.
You’re my fixed point. This is the truest thing I know. I imagine you saying, I’m your Master. I could almost hear you whisper in my ear, I own you. I think about that and I ache.
I miss you in a way I never have before. I want to show you how much I want you, by way of touch or kisses or even by just looking at your beautiful face. I want to kneel at your feet, collared and naked, ready to serve—ready to please. I always want to please you.
I wish I can just reach out and find your hand here, holding mine. I dream of turning towards your voice when you call my name. I want to burrow under the blanket in your bed, where you’ll find me at the end of the day, waiting. Always waiting for you.
I slipped and fell this afternoon in my small kitchen. It was dark, I haven’t turned on any lights. I haven’t eaten lunch and was feeling very weak. I was shaking and I was going to get a glass of water—but I blacked out. When I came to, surprised, lying on the floor, no idea what just happened—I lay there trying to tally all the parts of my body, if anything hurt.
What surprised me the most—or perhaps it should come as no surprise at all—is that it is my heart that hurts. It has been hurting for a while. I am unable to tell you why because I myself don’t know why. I seem to have lost my words—and that’s unsettling, for me. I lay there and I realised—really it’s Little me unable to find the vocabulary for what aches. And when I can’t use my words I can only cry, and yes, have I been crying a lot lately.
I lay there, tears on my face, wanting my Daddy, missing you, knowing I haven’t exactly been good, not knowing what I can do to make up for it; knowing I will always need you, not knowing how to be anything else but this; knowing you’re tired and maybe grumpy and maybe frustrated at the daily grind and all the things that you have to do but haven’t done yet, not knowing how to help and ease away all those worries.
I know when I’m in the middle of my depression I don’t make it easy for anyone. I lay there for a good while, trying to feel for broken bones, feeling I don’t have any elbows and knees, feeling exhausted. If only I could get up and go straight to your arms. If only I could walk away from my life now and fly to where you are.
No one told me that one of the biggest things about loving someone is missing them. No one told me that an empty room or an empty bed will feel even more bereft because you’re not in it. No one told me—or I guess I’ve forgotten.
I want your mouth on my nipples, your fingers inside my pussy. I want your fist inside me fucking me slowly, dragging out each moment, knowing we both love the torture. I want my legs shaking uncontrollably, want to see the wicked gleam in your eyes, laughter and satisfaction staring back at me as I squirt on your hand. I want you staring at me as you lick my juices off your skin, want your tongue sliding inside me. I want you to always know that you can have me like this any time—because I am yours.
Maybe I deliberately shoved it in the deeper recesses of my memory—the ache of not being with my beloved. I spent the last eleven years being fine with being alone and lonely, because it’s a creature I can understand. Not this—being in love and missing you, which I struggle to comprehend, the pain that comes with pleasure—which demands to be understood.
I unabashedly wanted this, I know—and now am humbled by it—
And it’s my own doing, too. I think: I am my own person, I give myself to myself—and yet your name appears on my mind all the time. My Daddy. My Dom. My Master. My owner.
I am tethered to you whether I will it or not. Yes: I am yours and you are mine.
Today I was thinking how I love to make you laugh. More than anything, I want to be a source of joy for you.
Perhaps I loved you longer than I knew you, perhaps I loved you even before we met—
Already I can hear you asking, what’s wrong, baby? And I can’t find my words. Is there even vocabulary that exists for my colossal need? I yearn for you when I wake up and before I go to sleep, and every waking moment in between. I yearn for you and I wait, because that is what one does, what one can ever do—I crave you and I linger, even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.
I know I have demons to fight. I know you can’t fix it, and I’m not expecting you to—but I do hope you can hold my hand while I try to fix myself. I know some days will be ugly. I know some days I’ll hurt both of us. I am hoping you’ll stay anyway. That all of this—all of me—is worth staying around for.
I’m trying to keep my sanity, trying not to disturb the equilibrium of work that pays the bills, trying to keep nurturing what few friendships I have, trying to write new poems and just—trying, in general. What constitutes a live well-lived, I wonder. Mary Oliver, one of my favourite poets, says: Listen, are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life?
Years ago I was in the centre of a typhoon. Years ago I walked all night from city to city, with the flood going up from my knees to my thighs to my waist to my chest, afraid I’ll fall in a manhole in the dark, afraid my life has been upended completely, afraid of everything I do not know. It feels like that now. So much is changing, so much I’m not in control of.
Let go, I told myself. Let go, and Daddy will catch you.
Whenever you tell me to disrobe in front of you I could feel you chipping away at all the barriers I have built around myself. I am naked, truly naked, and so damn terrified. You’re owned now, I hear you whisper. You will never be alone again. I recite these words to myself, as if a mantra, as if a prayer, each night before I go to sleep.
Oh Daddy, I am rusty, so rusty, at being human. Being with and loving someone. Sharing myself again with another person. Opening my heart to the possibility of being loved. I am naked and I am letting you see my monsters.
You see me—truly see me—and there’s nowhere for me to run, nowhere for me to hide. Everything I’ve carefully constructed around me—gone. Obliterated. How can you see me and want me and desire me?
All of this to say—I have never been so vulnerable and scared. I can only tell myself that that’s where growth is, in the friction. Even if I’m terror-struck and shaking like a leaf at the unknown before me, there is indeed one thing I am sure of: I love you.
I am from the past talking to you in your future, and I am saying: I am in love and I have awakened, and now I miss you tremendously even when I know I belong to you. It doesn’t make utter sense. And yet it feels true.
Today I had all these plans—I wanted to get up early and work all day and show myself that I am indeed doing something and not just futzing about. But it didn’t quite work out that way. I woke up and I just had no will to live or get out of bed. It’s just so hard, fighting it, Daddy. I feel worthless and I feel like I can’t do anything good or right.
I tried to be gentle with myself and say, it is okay, everything’s okay. There are no rules that I must follow, only our rules, Daddy’s rules, Master’s rules, which asks me to love myself. I tried to be okay with not accomplishing things and told myself it’s not because I don’t want to, it’s just that I literally can’t because of my mental illness. I don’t know why I am filled with so much love for you, Daddy, and have little for myself. I am working on it. I am trying to do better.
I am writing this right now, and I am breathless with my need for you. It refuses to be ignored—and when I’m in my little space my need is amplified a thousand times—I can barely tolerate it—
Growing up with my history, where all I’ve ever known and heard were discouraging words, abusive words, disheartening words, dispiriting words, demoralising words—it’s not that I don’t believe you, I do, and I trust you implicitly, absolutely—it’s just taking me a while to digest and embrace and accept your kindness and generosity and love.
My head often goes: yes, I am worthy of love—and yet my heart goes: but am I really? Decades of taunting and rebuke, of harm to my psyche and spirit—I still have to unlearn it all.
Thank you for being patient with me. When you say, Good morning, beautiful, when you say, you’re hot as fuck, when you say, you never bore me, when you say, I always want you—and I involuntarily shy away, it is because I am uncertain at the idea of myself being worthy of all that. But I am trying and learning. Each day.
But yes, I do have questions upon questions racing in my head—am I bothering you when I want attention? When am I allowed to say I need you without making you feel bad, because I never want to make you feel bad for having obligations and your own life? When is needing you too much? Should I curb my much-ness? Is my need putting unnecessary pressure on you, which I don’t want to happen? Am I vulnerable or needy, and how many psychology articles do I have to read until I know what to do? Am I generating too much anxiety that will upset you? Will my neediness push you away? Am I too much to deal with at a time when you are going through so much in your life, and how can I scale back? Would scaling back help you but hurt me? Am I okay with that? Are my psychological wounds triggering the desire to cling to you? At what point will you think enough is enough?
A voice in my head says: your need is nasty and malignant and no one wants someone like this. Another voice: don’t let your fear of abandonment ruin what’s bringing you joy. And then there’s another voice, your voice: It took me a while to find you. But now you’re mine. And I’m already yours. You have me, and I have you, it really is that simple.
In case I haven’t told you yet—I am becoming a better person because of you. I am ever grateful.
All of this to say—I miss you madly, profoundly, deeply—
Please forgive my lips and my tears and my relentless desire—