I See You, Wild Thing
Not trying.
Not posing.
Just living.
Just wrecking me without even noticing.
You show up in a tiny tube top that keeps slipping lower every time you move.
You don’t tug it up.
You don’t even notice.
You’re too busy being free.
You’re laughing.
You’re talking shit.
You’re running your fingers through messy hair
and sipping beer like you own the whole fucking orbit.
And you do.
You don’t wear a bra because why the fuck would you?
You don’t wear anything tight because you’re not trying to prove shit to anyone.
You’re built small.
You’re built wild.
You’re built exactly the way my hands crave to hold.
And when you finally crash into me
tiny thong, oversized t-shirt swallowing your whole gorgeous chaos
I swear I see God.
(breathe here)
Not because you’re polished.
Not because you’re styled.
Because you’re free.
And fuck, when my hands trace your tiny chest under that t-shirt?
When I feel your small, perfect tits pressed into me,
no straps, no armor, no hiding?
It’s over.
You’re not missing anything.
You’re not lacking.
You’re more.
More wild.
More real.
More holy.
The Mindfuck
I don’t just want to fuck you.
I want to wreck you so good you see yourself the way I do.
I want you gasping under my fingers,
realizing your flat chest is sacred.
I want you dripping into my mouth
when you realize you’ve been perfect all along.
I want you grabbing my hair and whispering,
“I didn’t know it could feel this good.”
And I’ll smirk against your skin and say:
“You just needed someone who knew how to worship what the world was too stupid to see.”
And fuck, I’ll never forget
the first time you straddled me in your oversized favorite sleeping shirt,
dipping off your shoulders
collarbone gleaming,
those sexy fit shoulders
making my mouth ache to mark you.
You were laughing about something only we would find funny,
and I almost came untouched,
just feeling your ribs press against me,
your whole tiny chaos owning every beat of my fucking heart.
Mapping You Like a Religion
I don’t need handfuls to crave you.
I need the way your ribs shift under my mouth.
I need the way your nipples harden
when my breath hits you.
I need the way your whole tiny chest arches
like it’s begging for prayers, not just touches.
You don’t just fit in my hands.
You fucking crown them.
Praise Ritual Prompt:
Tell me the body part the world ignored
but you still ache to worship.
Sacred T-Shirt Altar
And when you climb into my stretched-out t-shirt
no lace,
no armor,
just soft fabric brushing your skin
laughing with your whole wild mouth
That’s the holiest thing I’ll ever kneel for.
You don’t need lace.
You don’t need styling.
You don’t need anything but your own fucking heartbeat.
Maybe it’s sensory, too.
The softness.
The flatness.
The lack of weight.
My ADHD skin can’t always handle heavy textures or cluttered chaos
but the way your chest brushes mine under a thin shirt?
That’s dopamine.
That’s divinity.
That’s regulation disguised as lust.
Tiny girls.
Small tits.
Wild hearts.
Tomboy chaos wrapped in sunshine and sweat and trouble.
You’re not my type.
You’re my fucking religion.
Tiny tits.
Full tits.
Wild tits.
Whatever chaos you carry
you’re fucking holy to me.
And when you pull on that little tube top,
skip the bra,
throw my t-shirt over your soaking wet body
I swear, God herself holds her breath to watch you move.
TL;DR Devotional Poem
You don’t just make me hard.
You make me fucking home.
Home the way my hands shake to touch you.
Home the way my mouth aches to mark you.
Home the way I’d fall to my knees
just to taste your laugh again.
My brain forgets birthdays and bill due dates.
But your laugh in that stretched-out t-shirt?
Your nipples pressing into me while you talked about something ridiculous and brilliant?
That lives in my fucking bone marrow.
ADHD didn’t break my memory.
It just prioritized the moments that made me feel alive.
And somehow…
every single one of those involved your chest.
Your chaos.
Your fucking holy ribcage crown.
Wild thing.
Tiny thing.
Beautiful fucking chaos.
You were never missing anything.
You were the whole goddamn symphony
I was born to worship.
If this made you cry, come, or crack open
you’re not alone.
You’re just finally hearing your body be praised in a language it always deserved.
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Been loved like this? Want to be?
Send this to the person who makes your hands shake.
Or submit your own sacred wreckage.
You might just find yourself worshipped next.