What you’re reading is the raw, unfiltered version of a poem that exists in a more refined form elsewhere. I write from emotion—often in the moment—and it’s usually in that space where my most honest, powerful work takes shape.

He doesn’t break me—
just bends the pieces,
soft hands twisting until I’m
almost familiar again.
Almost.

I wait in silence
for the click of recognition,
but it never comes.
Just the hush of fingers
unzipping skin
like packaging.

There’s no pedestal here,
no place beside him—
only a shelf
where the lights stay off
and the dust forgets my name.

He says I’m more.
But more doesn’t call,
more doesn’t stay,
more doesn’t bleed between the words
and still leave me waiting.

I’m not his.
I’m not mine.
I’m something in between—
a thing that moans on cue
then vanishes
until the next ache needs feeding.

And when he’s done?
He doesn’t drop me.
He sets me down—
gently, even—
as if that soft place
makes me less discarded.

But I know better.
I know my place.

On the shelf.
In the dark.
Out of sight.
Until next time.

Copyright © Wynter Rayne 2025. All Rights Reserved.