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When you finally reach out to me, I won't know how to respond. Whatever safe, palatable, plain, polite response I offer up… know what I meant to say was:

For years, I have needed you to see me as a calm, cool, mature, stable force. A beacon that can lead you. Provide you the assurance, security, and reliability you lack in your life. Be steadfast for you. Be, for you, what I am not. Not really. Not right now. Not in my real life, where I am told what to do, what to be, in small, safe boxes made of concrete.

But perhaps more than that, when the façade cracks, the mask slips, and you finally respond to a peek at the real me, I might realize I need you to see me as I really am: messy, disgusting, gross, sloppy, sick, chaotic. I want you to see the want that lingers under the things I've done and said—my wants greater than my needs.

Wants that scare me. Bruise my ego, strike fear in my heart, threaten my very being. Wants that paint me as degenerate, despicable, monstrous, horrific. My want of you. Want of so much.

I want you to spit in my mouth and claim me.

Take you to the restaurant you've only driven past. Order for you because I don't want your head distracted with even one decision. No concerns about what is too expensive to order—just thoughts of me and what I choose for you. Clean the plate like a good girl because I paid for each bite.

During a trip to the bathroom, slip your panties off and into my pocket for a keepsake. My darling, you can't comprehend how I will treasure this gift. I pat-pat my pocket.

Don't be scared off by what I want. Want it too.

I want you. I want to possess you. Be possessed by you.

There's a freckle on your shoulder I want to name Steve. Long, winding conversations with Steve. All-night convos. My best friend Steve. See him? Right there on your shoulder?

Constellations, cosmos, written and stippled on your skin. Too many unnamed, unknown, unloved freckles and moles. Nebulas to navigate. Star charts to map. New territories to discover. Own. I wish to name and know them all.

My ear pressed to your chest, listening for a heartbeat, making sure you are still alive, real, here, with me. What would I do if it wasn't beating? Wasn't real?

I want you to touch yourself when you think of me. Even if I am not me—just a disembodied voice from your phone or words spreading black on a white screen. Just like that, honey. So good. Just for me—however you might take me.

I want to feed you chocolates. Open your mouth. You are my little baby now. I feed you. Wipe your mouth. So sweet. So good. So precious.

Just when I think I want too much from you—more than you can give—just when I am scared you will run—you'll cry out, “More! More! Take more! I can give more!”

When you are frustrated with me, I will crawl on hands and knees, massage and kiss your toes, playfully hold your foot to my ear like a phone, and ask, “Is Caroline still grounded, or can she come out and play?” And know you will laugh. Hold my cheek. Say all is forgiven, my love. Will your forgiveness really be easy? Just like that?

I want to go to clubs, watch you dance and grind on men, turn them on until they think you'll go home with them, then return to me, patient at a table against the wall. I want you to always return to me, sweetheart. Will you?

Please, tell me all the things you need and want from me. Those deep, dark desires you've never said aloud. Speak clearly. Use your big girl words in your big girl voice as you tell me what to do and say for you. It's all for you. You know I won't shy away. I will do anything. Just ask.

And me.

Be as intense as me. Enjoy this.

Melt into me and let me melt into you.

Will you like me when I feel pathetic and lost and need guidance?

Will you guide me gently with your palms?

And will you like when I am confident and strong, when I pull you to my attention?

All of it. Will you want all of me?

I want you to:

Like me. Crave me. Want me. Need me. Savor me. Appreciate me.

So you see, I need a lot. But I want even more than I can write—too much. I want too much from you. Don't I, sweet girl? I know it.

So I won't say any of this. Instead, I'll pop out a nice, polite response when you finally reach out and give a stupid fucking thumbs-up emoji… what else could I even say?

I could never say what I really think.