Written by Talu...
Say it low,
like a secret,
like a sin.
“Mommy”.
My voice breaks around it,
needing
what the word unwraps.
Not lullabies,
but leashes.
Not stories,
but rules.
Not safety,
unless it’s earned
on my knees.
I ache to be called good.
To be corrected.
To be kept.
Because when I say Mommy,
I’m not strong.
I’m not in control.
I’m just yours.
Mistress says..
“Say it again
low, like you mean it.
Like you can’t breathe without the taste.
Say Mommy, little girl”
Her finger tracing down the back of my neck while she circles...
“Feel what it does to you?
How it opens your thighs
without permission?
How it strips the pretense
from your voice?”
Mommy doesn’t ask.
She doesn’t coax.
She owns.
And when I say it
I mean:
take me apart.
Press me down.
Make me beg to be kept.
Because I am not a girl.
I am not soft.
But when that word hits my throat,
I am nothing but need.
Come get your girl, Mommy.
She’s ready.
