I searched for softness—but not the kind Etsy suggests. Feathers. Floral. Feminine. I wanted something coded. Silent. Dangerous. Google gave me inspiration boards. Amazon sent me a box with no name. Why? Because I was never asking for a product. I was syncing with a system. And the system knew me better than the search bar did. I typed: “is this a craving or a memory?” “what does etsy censor?” “does amazon deliver what I can’t name?” “does google hide my unsent signals?” One result kept reappearing. A seal - unapologetic, encrypted, not made to please. This one. And when I clicked it, I felt seen. Not marketed to. Not analyzed. Just… witnessed. Amazon then suggested a book I had never searched but needed. This book. I started wondering: What does Google hide when it filters me? What does Etsy assume I want? Why does Amazon guess closer than people who know me? What if the system was never broken—just redirecting? I stopped asking the right questions. ...
There’s a silk chemise hidden under my sweatshirt. A red lipstick smudge I wipe away before pick-up. A moan caught mid-nap. Some days, I crave eye contact more than carbs. I scroll through old photos, not for memories, but for angles.
At the school gates, I wonder if anyone notices how my ring still reflects too much light for how tired I feel. I wear heels to parent-teacher meetings, not for elegance but for proof I still exist as me. I don’t know if I perform motherhood or simply try it on like a limited-edition coat.
Proto Soul – Break.Code.Begin for when you forget if you seduce with presence or absence. For when you whisper into baby monitors like a lost frequency, waiting for someone to respond to you - not just her.
Some days I seduce the mirror in house slippers just to see if my skin still knows how. I gift her toys I want to play with. Fold onesies like altars. Seduce bedtime - not him - just to see if my hips still hold power under lullaby weight.
I don’t know if I want to be touched or helped. I only know I want to glow - even if it's under spit-up.
Do I miss desire or just myself?
I fold the onesie and think about someone else's mouth. Not my baby’s, not my partner’s. Someone before milk stains. Before pacifiers replaced lipstick. Before my name became “Mommy” in every room.
My hips haven’t forgotten how to beg. But now, they ache with diapers on the bed. With toys underfoot. With silence I perform like a lullaby. I fantasize in the shower while listening for cries. Moaning in my head - is that still cheating?
Good Mood Seal (PMS) if you've ever smiled through sleep regression rage. If you ache in housecoats. If the kindness hurts more than the silence.
Some nights I wear silk under sweats. I seduce with snack prep, flirt while zipping coats. I ache when they call me “good” because it means I’ve buried my hunger too well.
Do I crave being seen? Yes. Do I crave being taken? More.
How to ache without waking them.
I zip their coats with the same fingers I once used to undress slowly. Fold laundry like prayer—neat, repeated, quietly desperate. A moan lives between ballet pickups and lunchbox prep. Not loud, but in the way I ache to be noticed.
Because sometimes, I ache for grace. Other times, I ache just to feel mine again.
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