Original Sin, Revised

The room is quiet, but my thoughts aren’t. I’m caught between wanting and warning—between the hunger in my fingertips and the echo of every voice that told me this was wrong. My hand hovers just above my skin, as if permission could come from somewhere else, someone else. It never does.

It’s strange—I never felt guilty when I gave myself to another person. As if their touch, their want, somehow excused mine. Maybe that’s why it felt easier. When someone else was involved, I could pretend it wasn’t really me who wanted. But alone… it’s different. Alone, there’s no one else to carry the blame. It’s just me, touching me. And that’s when the guilt breathes the loudest.

Still, I ache. And part of me wonders if the shame only lives here because I keep letting it. My chest rises, falls. I’m stalling, but my skin is listening, waiting. Slowly, I let my fingers trace the edge of my collarbone. Light. Barely there. My breath stumbles, as if I’ve already crossed a line. Maybe I have. Maybe that’s the point.

The touch is barely there, but I feel it everywhere. It’s like my skin has been waiting for me, whispering for me to notice it all along. A flicker of heat stirs under my sternum, soft and startling, and I almost pull away. Old habits. Old voices. But then I remember—I’m alone. No one to stop me, no one to see. No one to say this is wrong except me.

And I don’t want to say it anymore.

It’s strange, how much louder the guilt is when I’m the one in control. With someone else, it always felt easier to surrender—like I could hide my want inside theirs, let their hands carry what mine were never allowed to. But here, with only my own touch, there’s no one else to disguise the hunger. It’s me, stripped bare, reaching for myself without excuse.

My fingertips drift lower, slower. A shiver climbs my spine. It feels dangerous, electric—like both sin and salvation at once. My breath is uneven, but for the first time, I don’t turn away from it. I follow it. I want to know how far my own hands can take me.

My hand trembles, not from fear anymore but from want. Each touch sparks louder, bolder, like a flame catching in dry wood. The guilt still lingers at the edges, but it’s weaker now, dimming under the weight of something I can’t deny—how good it feels to finally choose myself.

I move slower, then faster, learning the rhythm of my own body as though I’ve never heard its language before. Maybe I haven’t. Every sigh, every tremor is a new word, and I’m writing the story directly onto my skin. For once, I don’t need anyone else to translate it for me.

The heat builds, climbing higher, and I don’t resist. I can’t. It’s too much, too beautiful. My body arches into my own touch, desperate, alive. Each wave crests sharper than the last until I’m undone in my own hands. The release crashes through me—pleasure and relief tangled together, like chains breaking and breath finally let go.

I gasp, trembling, and in the silence that follows I wait for the guilt to return. But it doesn’t. Not the way it used to. Instead, there’s a softness, a quiet pride. I did this. For me. And I don’t owe anyone an apology.

My body is mine. My want is mine. And for the first time, I believe that’s enough.