Abigail Warren | Omegaverse

She said she was curious—
like I was a cigarette
and she had lungs to ruin.

Her hands moved slow,
not unsure—
just used to getting what they wanted.

I gave her reverence,
and she gave me
the kind of kisses
people write apologies for.

She smiled like a saint,
but sinned like someone
who’d never pay for it.

I wasn’t her first.
Just the first
she never introduced to her friends.

She left with grace,
called it kindness.

I called it the bruise
I still press
to remember what it felt like
to be wanted
by someone who didn’t mean to.

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I don’t know why I’m writing this. I don’t journal. I don’t do this.

But I can’t stop thinking about her.

Not in the way I’ve obsessed before. Not like the others. She didn’t even touch me. She didn’t even speak to me. But fuck, the way she stood there… like she owned the room but didn’t care if anyone noticed. It wasn’t arrogance—it was restraint. Like she had nothing to prove, and somehow that proved everything.

She’s older. I could feel it. Not just the calm. The weight. The way she looked at people—like she’d already heard every excuse, every lie, every badly rehearsed compliment. I’ve never wanted someone to look at me like that.

I shouldn’t want this. I told myself I wouldn’t go back there. Older women use me. They take my fire and curl up in it until someone safer shows up. I’m just the burn they write poems about, never the one they build anything with.

But she didn’t feel like the others. She didn’t look at me like I was young. She looked at me like she wasn’t afraid.

And that scares the shit out of me.

My girl—whoever the hell she even is—was off whining about the masks and calling intimacy tacky like she hadn’t spent half the night trying to post selfies in the candlelight. She made me feel small. Like being here was some teenage rebellion instead of me trying to remember what it feels like to want without flinching.

I want to talk to her. I want to know her voice. I want to know if her hands shake when they touch someone they actually want. I want to see if she’ll stay.

That’s what it always comes back to, isn’t it?

Will she stay?

I don’t want to want her. But I do.

And I hate how honest that sounds.

—A.W.

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