Not Everything That Hurts Is Intimate — But It Could Be
Pain isn’t always intimate. Sometimes it’s mechanical. Or bored. Or just enough to say “we did something.” Sometimes it’s sloppy — like a checklist of rough things someone saw in porn and decided to copy on a real body without ever checking to see who lived in it.
I’ve had pain that left marks but no meaning. Bruises that didn’t ache in the right way. I’ve had hands on me that thought pressure was the same as presence. It’s not.
Because real pain — the kind I crave — asks something from you too. It’s not just about how hard you hit or how red my skin turns. It’s about whether you’re watching what happens after. Whether you’re listening when I go quiet. Whether you're giving pain, or just doing pain.
I don’t want to be your experiment or your proof-of-concept. I don’t want to be handled like a body that will bounce back no matter what.
I want pain that knows me — or at least wants to. Pain that remembers what I said when I flinched a little too hard. Pain that doesn’t always mean cruelty. Pain that might mean care. Pain that can coexist with reverence — not because it’s soft, but because it’s earned.
Not everything that hurts is intimate. But it could be. It should be.