Nameless and Shameless
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babyfirstandlast.bsky.social
Nameless and Shameless
@babyfirstandlast.bsky.social
14 followers 75 following 49 posts
🔞🖤💄⛓️⛓️‍💥💋🖤🔞 No last name to claim. Call me what you like but call me a consenting adult. Creative writing sketches as I process a lot of new firsts and half a lifetime of lasts: what I’m becoming and what I’ll never be again. The alpha and the o-megabrat.
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I go to therapy, I journal, I do shadow work. I exercise, I meditate, I meal prep. I hydrate, I organize, I moisturize.
I'm patient. Mostly. I give myself grace. Sometimes.

I'm working on it.

None of it matters.

Living gluten-free is not a personality and tonight I'm feeling it.
The Things I Have Given Up:
Growing old together
The 20th anniversary holiday somewhere sunny and serene
The dream home
The chef's kitchen
The master suite
The massive closet
The deep soaking tub
The king-sized bed
Pretending
Performing
Recoiling
Dread

The Things I Have Gained:
My freedom
Myself.
No seriously this is quite the most perfect couple's costume and I can't stop thinking about it help
“What do you want to be for Halloween?”

. . . a trick and a treat
It’s a hamster wheel on the hardest days. When freedom feels farthest.
I’m going to run.
If fear is a lack of trust, I’m not afraid.
I’m going to wait.
My heart will hammer and my voice from the future will rise in my chest.
It’s going to end. You’re going to be okay.
I’m going to listen.
Meditation, manifestation, setting intentions -

I just want to fuck in private and make each other laugh in public. And vice versa.
We remember ancient civilizations for their stories, not their tax returns. And while my personal jury is still out re: happiness leads to creativity, I fully buy in on the scientific fact that creativity leads to happiness.

youtube.com/shorts/1tJ29...
it makes you 28% happier (whatever that means)
YouTube video by struthless
youtube.com
This. @girlonthenet.bsky.social hits the nail on the head and JM points out the excruciating exhilarating fact that telling a tale is creative architecture. The final line is load-bearing.

I’m not smirking at this analogy, ✨you✨ are.
Sometimes I don’t write unless I’m told to.
The scene is a watercolor. Impressionistic blur for the location, the weather, the time of day. It might be in public, there could be rough approximations of people surrounding us. And yet, at the center, the detail is vividly clear:
“We should discuss a safe word, don’t you think?”
I hope you see this at an incredibly random moment and that when you do, your world stops for a few seconds as you think about the noise I make when you shove yourself inside me.
Neurodivergent panic when no one’s at the pharmacy counter and there’s a sign that says “please press button for assistance” um no that’s rude I’ll just wait for the rest of my life if need be thanks sorry
Eyes follow me on my way back to our table. You don’t notice. You used to watch and take pride in the lust your creation ignites. But your creation’s haunting you now. A withdrawn ghost. Your teachings were subtle, but eventually I learned that silence floats best over thin ice.
20 years and the loyalty was so strong that even when I hated what you’d become I didn’t know it.
You took your time with the reveal, didn’t you?

My fingers are purple and throbbing from raking frost out of this cell’s freezer.
Better than crying on my knees.
But oh how I’ve done that too.
You carry so much weight on your shoulders. Lighten the load, sling my thighs there instead.
Your joys, your frowns, your grimaces, your scowls -

I want to comfort, I want to soothe, and -

I want to provoke.
I want to remind you of what’s so carefully leashed within. What I see in the small hours doesn’t disappear in daylight.
At 2:30 in the morning I was extremely amused by “the coming is rapture.”
At 3 pm the next day - damnit I’m still amused.
The coming is rapture.

A tiny death.
Momento mori, Daddy.
But as I live and breathe -

Sanctuary is the ground beneath your feet.
The coming is rapture.

A tiny death.
Momento mori, Daddy.
But as I live and breathe -

Sanctuary is the ground beneath your feet.
So please.
Deliver unto me your judgment.

Pillage my agency. Strip me of every illusion. Remind me of why I truly exist.
Because some day, I won't.

Asses to ashes, sluts to dust.
And when you finally part me and I take His name in vain, I can glimpse revelation:

My best life is useless if I can't also be my worst self, given the chance to perform this tearful penance.
Only you know exactly how to redeem me.
I renounce the world outside of you inside me.
Slide your thumb into my mouth.

Test my faith and tell me to spread my legs.

Break any notion of control that still plagues my pretty little mind. Break my pretty little mind entirely. Taunt the suffering corpus that screams to encompass you.

Mortification of my flesh.
It only takes one hand.
Tell me to kneel. Brush the back of your palm against my compliant cheek.

Benediction. My skin blooms. One touch dissolves thought.

Service has begun.

My daily planner, my supplements, my fumbling attempts to make sense of a world that refutes the very concept of sense -