For the One Who Came Back for More

A second letter for the woman who couldn’t help herself—who read the first, and felt it bloom between her ribs. A deeper ache. A darker kiss. A velvet descent into everything unsaid.

You came back.
Of course you did.

You tell yourself it’s just words—
but your body betrayed you.
You read it too slowly.
You felt it too deeply.
You kept parts of it tucked inside your thoughts
like a secret you weren’t ready to tell anyone.

And here you are again.
Still wrapped in the ache of it.
Still wondering if the letter knew something about you
you hadn’t admitted yet.

Good.
Stay with me.
I’m not finished.

Because I don’t want the polished version of you.
Not the one who’s figured it all out.
Not the one who wears power like armor.

I want the version who bites her lip
when she’s overwhelmed in the grocery store.
The one who laughs a little too loud when she’s tired,
and says “I’m fine”
when she’s anything but.

I want the one who touches herself softly after crying.
Not to escape—
but to remind herself she’s still alive.
Still holy.
Still hers.

And if I could,
I would kiss your palms until you remembered
that being held is not a weakness.

I would press my face into your thighs
like they were the last prayer I was allowed to whisper.
I’d taste you
not for pleasure,
but for proof—
that grief and beauty
can live in the same body.

Still reading?

→ Good. Now come see what I only say when I know you’ll come back.