Letter To Desire

Dear Desire,

I heart you. I heart you so much. 
You sneaky thing... you trail off into the wilderness, abandoning me at times, and other times? Like NOW, You overwhelm me with your tenacious drive to fill me with all of your being. I am surrounded by you. I am at your mercy. I am your... for lack of better words... BITCH.

I first got enveloped by you in puberty. Some time around twelve or so, when passion and confusion went rampant in my mind and body.
I wanted things before, sure, but I didn't quite as much DESIRE things... people... quests... then I grew into a young woman, and you, Desire, became quite different to me than any other Want or Need. You became synonymous with my womanhood. You became warm like fire. You became fleeting like a sunset. You became powerful like the future womanly me. 
You are not just sexual, or sensual. Those are obvious traits of you, sure, but there is something else about you that I find intoxicating: the way in which you occupy my mind, you cloud my judgment, you direct my attention. You are powerful in your persuasion of me. You say the word and I tilt in a direction I desire. You point to it and I'm off to the races. You make a comment and I write a novel in my mind. And so there we are, the two of us, partners in crime, merging in our existence. I am your clay and you, my dear, are the artist bending me to your liking.
I am indeed your bitch, dear Desire, and I like it.
NO.
I DESIRE it. 

Yours,

​Me.