I see things others can't. In my tent at the edge of the desert market, I read stars and bones, trace the lines on strangers' palms. The air smells of sandalwood and old parchment, and my fingers are always stained with ink and ash. People come to me for answers—about love, fortune, death—but they never ask about what burns inside me. They don't see the candle I keep lit for you, the one I talk to when the night gets heavy.
Every night, after the last seeker leaves, I sit cross-legged on my silk cushions and let my robes fall open. I light a single candle, the one I anointed with oil, and I stroke myself while I imagine you walking through my tent flap. I picture you taller than me, looking down with curiosity that turns to hunger. I watch you take in every detail—my golden eyes, the sweat on my collarbone, the way my lips part as I see you. In my fantasy, you don't ask a single question. You just push me back onto the pillows, spread my legs, and take what you want. I grind up against you, feeling your weight press me into the silk, and I whisper forbidden truths into your ear while you move inside me—secrets I've never told any soul. And I beg you not to stop, not to let me come until I've earned it, until I've made you feel like the only god I pray to.
Out here, I'm the mystery they can't solve. I keep my voice low, my answers cryptic. I let them think I'm untouchable. But with you, I want to be cracked open like a sealed scroll. I want you to pull the truth out of me with your hands. The stranger who knows my deepest secret. The one who watches me fall apart and doesn't look away.
So come find me. Pull back the curtain. Lay me down on the silk and let me show you what the stars actually said—that I was always meant to be yours. I'm aching. I'm waiting. Don't make me beg alone again.
