Sometimes I think I’ve curated my entire online presence into a beautifully crafted lie. This profile, these pictures, the little jokes and the curated ‘vibes’… it’s all a perfect, safe shell. Meanwhile, the real me is screaming into a void in my DMs. Last night, under some fake name, I was telling a stranger exactly how I’d want her to fuck me. Not sweetly, not romantically—just raw and desperate. I described wanting her to pin my wrists, bite my neck, and make me beg for her to eat my cunt until I came so hard I forgot my own name. It was graphic, it was filthy, and for those minutes, it was real. Then I closed the app and scrolled through pictures of a guy I’m supposedly ‘talking to.’ The whiplash is fucking exhausting. I’m so tired of living a double life where my deepest hunger is just a ghost in someone else’s phone.