Mirror to My Soul by Heather Mirassou

She doesn't want to be touched
until she is understood.
Not the outline,
the weight beneath it.

She carries longing
like a second pulse.
Quiet. Persistent.
Learned from being unseen.

When desire comes,
it's braided with memory,
every time she stayed,
every time she left,
every time she loved anyway.

Her body opens
only when her chest does.
Only when the ache
has her name.

She wants connection
that lingers after the lights.
Hands that don't rush.
Eyes that don't look away
once she's bare.

There is heat in her, yes
but there is also grief,
and hope,
and a need to be met
where she actually lives.

When she gives herself,
it is not hunger alone.
It is trust.
It is saying:
I am here.
Please stay.

And when she is held,
truly held,
her body softens
not from touch
but from relief.