they only want the version of me they can fuck

i’m gonna be real.

i am so fucking tired.

tired of being wanted for how i look, how i flirt, how i move.

tired of the recycled ass compliments, the same “you’re so different” lines that taste like lies coming out of their mouths.

tired of being touched in people’s heads before i’ve even opened my mouth.

they don’t want me.

they want the fantasy. the sex appeal. the soft skin and sharp tongue combo.

they want to fuck me, not know me.

and honestly? i’m getting fucking bored.

it’s all so repetitive.

same shit, different face.

same dry conversations that never go deeper than “you’re so fine” and “i bet you got people all over you.”

yeah, i do. and none of them are saying anything new.

none of them are asking shit that matters.

none of them are sticking around long enough to see me unravel.

they just want what they can look at, touch, moan about.

and once it stops being shiny, they’re gone.

i’m tired of entertaining people who only see me as something to get off to.

and yeah, maybe that sounds bitter — guess what? i fucking am.

because i’ve given too many pieces of myself to people who didn’t deserve them.

i’ve let too many people orbit around me just because they said i was pretty.

and i’m fucking done with that.

you want the truth?

the real me is a mess.

mentally fucked half the time. overthinking everything. crying randomly. disappearing for days when shit gets heavy.

i get moody. i get insecure. i get dark.

and i don’t think anyone’s ever wanted that version of me.

not the girl who spirals. not the girl who can’t sleep. not the girl who’s been carrying the weight of her own mind for years and is still fighting to get out of bed some days.

they don’t want that shit.

they want the illusion.

they want the pretty version of pain — not the reality of it.

they want the body, not the baggage.

and you know what else?

i’m sick of trying to be palatable.

sick of shrinking myself into something sexy and digestible.

sick of pretending the attention is enough when it’s really just noise.

because i don’t want to be fucking admired.

i want to be understood.

and there’s a massive fucking difference.

i’m not some dream girl you get to fuck and forget.

i’m a whole ass person.

and if you can’t handle all the versions of me — the loud one, the quiet one, the manic one, the crying one, the bored and rage-filled and dissociated one then you don’t get any of me.

not even a glimpse.

so yeah. i’m hot. i know that.

but i’m not flattered by your thirst anymore.

i’m not turned on by your obsession unless it comes with effort. presence. depth.

and until then?

save your compliments. save your “damn girl.” save your fuckboy energy for someone still impressed by it.

me?

i want more.

and i’d rather be alone than stuck in this same boring fucking loop where i’m wanted by everyone but known by no one.