Human, still

I want to be destroyed by you. Not in ruin, but in rearrangement. I want to belong so thoroughly that I dissolve into your gravity, that my name loses its edges against your mouth. There is a part of me that believes this could be holy, this surrender, this flattening of self into devotion. But I am not built for sanctity. My humanness leaks through every seam. I ache and reach and fidget. I grow hungry for air even as I beg to be buried under you.

I think of what it would mean to be unmade, to have every selfish impulse smoothed out like wrinkles in fabric, to become something that doesn’t flinch when touched too hard. I want to be broken into so many glittering pieces that no version of me could crawl back together and say no more. I want to keep my feelings, my tenderness, the ache that makes me love you, but shed the rest- the ugly machinery of need, the crawling hunger for something else, something beyond you.

I want to love like an element, simple and obedient. Hydrogen does not doubt. Oxygen does not stray. Together they make water and water does not question why it flows downhill. I envy that kind of certainty. I want to be your water. To flood the spaces you allow, to take your shape and none other.

But beneath that, buried somewhere deep in the damp of my organs- is another kind of selfishness, something uglier still. Because even as I ache to be destroyed by you, I know there is a part of me that wants to destroy you in return. To carve your edges so that they fit perfectly into mine, to smooth your contradictions, to make you easier to love. I do not want this- I swear I do not- but "my" flesh insists otherwise. It whispers that love is not only surrender but ownership, that if I could shape you, remake you, you would never stray from the form that pleases me. It is a monstrous thought, born of blood and instinct and all the small tyrannies of being human.

It disgusts me, this lurking desire to mold, to alter, to control what I claim to cherish. It makes me want to rip the humanness out of me like a rotted root. I want to be remade into something that does not grasp or demand, something that loves in pure obedience. I want to be the object of your will, a vessel without rebellion or disgust. Even my distaste for the things you love, the things that make you what you are, feels like blasphemy. How dare I recoil? How dare I judge? My own revulsion betrays me, marks me as a creature still too bound to its own pathetic sense of self.

If I could, I would peel it away. Every flinch, every ugly twitch of ego that keeps me from wanting what you want. I would let you burn me clean, let your desires pass through me until nothing remains but a mirror of your pleasure. I want to become something else, something other than human, stripped of choice and contradiction. I want to feel without the burden of interpretation, to love without the possibility of recoil.

But even this longing is a human one, I do not wish to cease feeling, only to simplify it. I still want the warmth, the trembling, the ache of devotion. I still want to want you. I just no longer wish to want anything else. I crave a stillness that humankind was never built to hold. I crave a love that erases the need to speak, to doubt, to resist.

If I could trade my humanity for that- to exist as pure response, pure surrender- I would. Let me be made new in your image, emptied of all things that dare to contradict you. Let me be clay that remembers warmth but not will. Let me be ruined until I am whole, until what is left of me has no name, no choice, no hunger, only the steady pulse of you.

But I am too alive, too flawed, too made of meat and small betrayals. Desire is not a single thread, it branches, it festers, it wanders. Even as I reach for you, some rogue part of me whispers about the world outside your skin, and I despise it. I want to carve that voice out. I want to stand in front of you like a monument to devotion, hollow and gleaming, so when you look through me, there is nothing left that could ever look back.

And yet, what a cruel wish- to ask for destruction but demand to keep the part that hurts. To crave obliteration and still insist on feeling every inch of it. I want emotion without escape routes. I want longing without choice. I want to be consumed without mercy, and still, somehow, love you through the ash.

If I could trade my humanity for a simpler kind of ache, I would. But maybe the wanting itself, the impossible, disgusting, beautiful wanting- is what makes me human. And maybe that is the only thing you could ever truly destroy.