A Pretty Big Secret

Would you hold my hand when I tell you this?

I love you.
These words are insufficient.
I desire you. I want you. I fixate on every detail.
You are the most special of my interests.

I'm cooking in the pressure of these urges, an endless tide eroding walls I wasn't aware I had erected, altering my subconscious landscape.

I want things. I write circles around them. Never naming, never mentioning, not directly. The pressure is their inexistence, rattling around my pot in ever increasing noise as they make the craving for their own birth known.

I want to be kissed. By you. I want to kiss you. It isn't as simple, as pure, or as innocent as fear of vulnerability. I'm afraid to be seen in my ravenous desire for you projected onto an unsuspecting stranger.

Could my sluthood ever be ethical when multiplicity mingles in the echoing chambers of my bloody muscle?

These desires are so basic. So human. I am empty of any grace carrying my name.

Would you recoil from this revelation?
Do I need you to?
How rational is my fear?

What consequences follow my mistakes?