Ruin Her

Most women won’t admit it, but they crave your obsession more than your love. And I’m writing this for the ones who know it, but won’t say it.

Let’s stop pretending.

I’m not here for your resume,

your curated playlist,

or the safe sex you’ve practiced like polite conversation.

I want to feel wrecked.

Ruined.

Worshipped like sin. Taken like prayer.

I don’t want you lying next to me, scrolling through your phone.

I want you under my skin.

I want to know you’re obsessed

because I’m the only thing that cuts through the numbness in your life.

I want your hunger loud.

Chaotic.

Unapologetic.

I want to be your favorite problem.

Don’t just undress me.

Unravel me.

I’ve been touched.

I’ve been fucked.

What I haven’t had is a man

who makes my body forget every man before him.

Someone who kisses me like he’s writing scripture

and moans my name like he’s just discovered language.

I want you to look at me like I’m dangerous.

Like if you don’t taste me now, you’ll combust.

I want to feel your restraint shake in your bones.

The way your breath catches when I bite my lip.

The way your self-control crumbles

when I whisper the thing you didn’t think I knew you liked.

I want filth.

But make it intimate.

Give me a dirty devotion.

The kind of sex that makes you confess afterward—

not because it was wrong,

but because it was holy.

And I want your mind.

Because if your thoughts don’t fuck me first,

your body never stood a chance.

This isn’t about love.

Not at first.

It’s about the spark before the fire.

The want before the words.

The magnetic, unbearable truth:

You want me more than your next breath.

And you’re finally brave enough to show it.