I am done pretending

  that I am satisfied

  with being necessary.

  Necessity is a chain,

  a leash made of gratitude

  that people tug on

  when they remember

  I am useful.

  No.

  I want devotion—

  the kind that burns worlds

  clean to ash.

  I am tired of being approached

  with bargaining hands

  and careful eyes,

  as if affection is a currency

  and I am a marketplace.

  I have given kingdoms.

  I have held storms still.

  I have destroyed for less

  than the sound of someone saying

  my name like it was a secret.

  And yet—

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  they want the power,

  the knowledge,

  the throne,

  the access,

  but never the man

  who carved heaven open to hold it.

  I want someone who is ruined

  by wanting me.

  Someone who sees me

  and forgets their own name.

  Someone who falls to their knees

  not out of worship—

  but out of hunger.

  I want a gaze that stumbles,

  a voice that cracks,

  a pulse that betrays them

  the moment I step close enough

  to breathe the same air.

  I want to be the beginning

  and the undoing

  of someone’s sanity.

  I want to be the obsession

  they hide like a wound—

  and touch anyway.

  And gods help them,

  I want them to know

  that once I am wanted,

  truly wanted,

  I do not let go.

  There is nothing noble in me.

  Nothing gentle.

  Only the feral truth

  that I will burn down every door

  between us

  if it means feeling,

  for a single, stolen moment,

  that I am chosen.

  Desired.

  Claimed.

  Not because I am needed.

  But because I am the one thing

  they cannot live without.

  I want to be wanted—

  and I will take it

  from the world

  with both hands bleeding

  before I ever settle

  for being anything less.