To crave

I’m meant to—

and secretly, he wants that too.

To be desired, to be needed.

Though once it is in his hands, he panics.

is overwhelmed,

when I am the one balancing society

and a home.

My longing is an inconvenience, however.

And all it is for is to be accepted,

to feel safe to be candid, unfiltered,

to fall apart

and not be chary to succumb to the task.

a deepened presence that makes it okay to sleep

a presence that leads in trust

rather than power. rather than control

Because there is no softness in power,

and they both yearn for tenderness—

one to give and the other to receive;

even this is without an owner

When he steadied, she found peace,

and in her peace, he found his own.

Held. Seen. Cherished. Unashamed. Protected.

Heard.

When there were no more butterflies

and he— unassumingly,

humbly,

unpretentiously—

asked her to surrender.

Not for his sake,

but her own.

She did.

And here she simply was.

He cared not for performance. Loudness—

but he did for holding a space where her

femininity was preserved and untouched.

Inviolable.

Chaste.

He cares so deeply for building something

with the only person it makes sense to do so with,

that validation from the outside holds no significance,

his essence is unyielding in the face of prejudice,

and there is no hunger to reign.

His ego remains intact in the absence of either.

Satiated by her purity and righteousness— which he never mistakes for meekness.

Here he is strong enough

for the both of them.

He does not flinch.

is not threatened by her confidence, or her awareness of her worth.

Rather than trying to challenge it, he does it all to meet the standard.

Rooted by the goodness he knows lies within her,

and radiates loud enough to brighten a room.

Stern in resolve and bearing, all the while soft in his gaze toward her.

built of discipline and fairness,

a steadfast guardian and guide.

Still.

Clear.

Himself.

She knows what her body is asking of her,

and under the darkness of the skies,

as does he—

even when words lacked.

But I was told I was unlovable.

I am unlovable, and in this feminine rage there is a war behind my eyes.

I am unlovable, and trust is fictitious,

at least when pride is involved to feed his lust for a throne.

My father always prided himself on raising a Valkyrie over an angel anyway.

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— A.M. Sención

05.31.2025

This writing is my original work. Do not reproduce without permission.