Champagne Confessions

Some people don’t touch your skin, they possess it.

And some touches you feel for years.

I knew he wasn’t mine the second he touched me.

But I let him touch me anyway.

Not because I was lonely.

But because I was craving something louder than silence,

something deeper than casual,

something that felt like being chosen,

even if it came dressed as being used.

His hands didn’t explore me.

They claimed me.

Rough. Intentional. Steady.

Like he already knew which parts of me would give in first.

And I let him.

Because there was something holy about the way he held me down and set me free in the same breath.

There was something sacred in how he made me feel owned,

not in body, but in ache.

He was not gentle.

But he was careful.

Careful in the way a predator studies prey before devouring it.

And God, did I want to be devoured.

He made me feel high.

Not emotionally. Not spiritually.

Chemically.

A delicious, slow-detonation kind of high.

Like if he stayed between my thighs long enough, I might leave my body altogether.

Like moaning his name wasn’t surrender, it was resurrection.

He’d call me baby in that low, deliberate tone, and everything in me would pause.

Not because I believed him.

But because my body did.

And when he disappeared afterward, I never blamed him.

I blamed myself.

For wanting more than what he’d never promised.

Because this was never a love story.

It was a pattern.

He’d vanish like a ghost with my perfume on his breath,

then return with a one-liner that knocked the logic out of my lungs.

“Missed you in my arms.”

And just like that, I’d be back.

Back in his bed.

Back under him.

Back in a version of hell that somehow felt like home.

Because he didn’t just fuck me, he branded me.

Every time he touched me, I hoped this time he’d stay.

That this time, he’d whisper something real into the space where his body lived but his heart never did.

But he never did.

Because he didn’t want to know me.

He wanted to consume me.

And I let him.

I let him consume every soft part of me I had spent years learning to protect.

Because the sex wasn’t just good.

It was biblical.

He made me feel like God had finally answered a prayer I didn’t remember praying,

and then punished me for believing it.

He kissed my neck like it was scripture.

Whispered filth like prophecy.

Touched me like he was at war with every man who’d ever had me,

and won by making me forget my own name.

And I thanked him.

With my legs. With my moans. With my willingness to break beautifully beneath him.

Because I thought if I fractured just right, he’d see me differently.

I thought if I shattered into something unforgettable,

he’d finally remember to love me.

But I was never unforgettable.

Just convenient.

Because what I mistook for intimacy,

was choreography.

A routine he’d perfected with women like me.

Hungry women.

Hopeful women.

Soft women.

And I was soft.

But not stupid.

Eventually, even craving starts to rot.

Even the high begins to sting.

And one morning, I woke up next to him,

and instead of longing,

I felt the unbearable weight of emptiness.

And that was the beginning of the end.

I didn’t leave because I stopped loving the way he made me feel.

I left because I started hating the way I disappeared in the process.

I won’t lie.

He still shows up.

Not in person, but in echoes.

In the way another man’s breath brushes my neck.

In the voice of someone who speaks too slowly.

In the way fingers tighten around my hips just enough to remind me of who I used to be.

Because for a long time, I wasn’t healing.

I was chasing him in different bodies.

Trying to find that same ache,

that same high,

in men who touched me with his rhythm but none of his ruin.

But none of them wrecked me the way he did.

And none of them made me feel as hollow afterward either.

Now?

Now I don’t chase the high.

I don’t ache for chaos dressed as intimacy.

I don’t let men borrow my body to forget their own emptiness.

I don’t trade pieces of myself for proof I can still be wanted.

I crave peace.

Presence.

The kind of love that doesn’t vanish after coming.

The kind of touch that doesn’t require translation or apology.

He’ll never touch me again.

Because I am no longer the woman who begs to be chosen.

I am the woman you earn, or lose forever.

And I will never again confuse being claimed with being kept.

Because I’ve learned:

Desire without care is just consumption.

Lust without reverence is just theft.

And there is nothing holy about being devoured by someone who refuses to digest your soul.

I am not a craving.

I am not a fix.

I am not the silence between his sins.

I am the altar.

The storm.

The ending he will never write again.

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