there might be a world where i am wanted.

maybe my hair is softer, longer—manageable. maybe my body is slight and petite, and i can be engulfed in arms of any kind. maybe my stomach is smaller, smoother—lacking the sweetness of too many pastries. maybe my skin is clear, and my features are angular, and my lips are fuller, and my hips follow an even horizon. maybe my breasts are larger, heavy with allure, and the dark spots on the insides of my thighs don’t distract from the silken fissure which exists there—warm and wet.

perhaps, i am tame, and i don’t scorch those who touch me. perhaps i am merely warm—not a wildfire of a woman who loses her temper too often. perhaps i am soft, and delicate, and dainty enough to warrant safety. perhaps i am worthy of adoration—a love that doesn’t begin with what i can provide with this wanton mouth of mine. perhaps someone could look at me, and burn with the heat of a thousand suns, yearning for a single glance in their direction.

there must be a world where i can be loved, but it’s certainly not this one.