Silent Contracts

I don’t crave love.

I crave surrender.

The quiet kind.

The kind that begs nothing,

but takes everything.

I find them—

soft men with soft eyes,

the ones who don’t ask questions

when I press their heads to my thighs

and whisper,

"Just stay like that."

I don’t touch them.

I don’t let them inside.

But I let them worship.

I let them unravel.

And I breathe in their ache

like it’s incense.

They fall in love,

as if I asked them to.

They say I’m holy.

They say I ruin them.

But I don’t even leave fingerprints.

They knew what this was.

They signed the contract with their silence.

It’s not a transaction.

It’s a confession.

I never wanted to be touched.

I wanted to be known

in the space between pulses,

in the breath before the moan.

I wanted to feel soft,

for once.

Safe.

Like purity could still be sensual.

Like my body wasn’t always currency.

But don’t mistake me—

I choose them.

Not by fate,

but by need.

I choose the ones who ache like I do,

who carry absence in their ribcage

like an extra lung.

I don’t want the love.

It terrifies me.

It clings.

But I give it,

in microdoses.

In forehead kisses.

In breathless stillness.

In the way I hold them

without promise,

but with truth.

And when they call me angel,

I believe them.

Not because I’m divine,

but because angels

never stay.