It's the stuff fantasies are made of.
Except for when it's not.
Playgrounds get used. Hard.
They don't choose by whom, or when, or why, or how much.
They are not always played with as they were designed to be, and they will see much pain and joy over the course of their existence.
It's easy to crave
it's easy to say
my body and my mind are your playground.
Until he starts to play.
Sometimes it's glorious, breathtaking, and mind-blowing. Everything flows and all feels as it was meant to be. The play is wanted and within it there are new and amazing heights as yet unreached.
It is easy because I desire it.
Yet it is not those moments that define me as his playground. It's the moments in which I am unwilling, those times that I want to close the gates, hang up the swings, and bar the gates.
But there is no closing time.
This is always,
in all ways,
when and how he says.
Because in our agreement, he doesn't just get the playground--the whole park belongs to him.
Maybe he likes his playground a bit more like a garden. Perhaps he tears out an awesome slide, and plants a rose bush. You miss that slide, it was fun, and it was part of you.Then he waters that rose.
Over and over again.
Until one day, it is beautiful
the scent is like heaven,
and the blossoms are like nothing else you have ever seen
it makes you smile
and it makes you bleed
it causes you pain
and it brings you peace.
It becomes an intrinsic part of his playground.
Then he continues to make changes. After all, the playground that is you belongs to him now.
Maybe he likes mind games and you hate them, but one day you find yourself to be a piece on the board of his playground...Because now, the only games you play, are the ones that he enjoys.
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