I Just Want One

By Sinchana Srikanth Iyengar

i'll never ask for too many hands.

just one.

one hand that holds mine

like it means something.

one voice that doesn’t forget to say

“i’m here. i’m staying.”

i never want a parade of boys

calling me pretty,

telling me things they say to every girl.

i want one man—

tall enough to reach my insecurities,

strong enough to carry the weight

of my unspoken fears,

hot, yes—

but mostly in the way he burns through my chaos

without flinching.

i want the kind of love

that doesn’t hang up mid-cry.

that doesn’t ask, “you again?”

when i text,

“can you remind me you love me?”

for the fifth time today.

i want someone

who understands that my silence

isn’t a punishment—

it’s a scream without volume.

someone who won’t sigh

when my anxiety loops the same question:

“do you still love me?”

what if you leave?

what if i ruin it?

what if i’m too much?

because i’ve always felt like too much.

i need him

to hug me like he’s trying to hold

together all the broken timelines in my head.

i need him

to stroke my hair and whisper,

“you’re not crazy, you’re hurt.”

and mean it.

i need him to show up

not with roses,

but with patience.

not with chocolates,

but with comfort.

not with promises,

but with consistency.

i need him to understand

that when i ask for reassurance,

i’m not being clingy.

i’m bleeding.

and every “i love you”

is a bandage

that holds my heart together

for just a little longer.

i want someone

who knows how to love the girl

who grew up unloved.

someone who knows

that i don’t just need affection—

i need reparenting.

i need protection.

i need to be held

like the world was too cruel

and he is my only safe place.

i want to be his baby—

soft, innocent, worthy.

i want to be his queen—

respected, admired, feared in the best way.

both.

at once.

always.

i want to raise a life with him.

one where our children never have to wonder

if they’re wanted.

one where their bedtime stories

don’t sound like cries for help.

but sometimes—

in the quiet—

i wonder if he even exists.

if a man like that

is real,

or if i made him up

so i could survive another night

without collapsing.

and god—

if he’s real,

please,

don’t let me die

before i meet him.

because i have so much love to give.

but i’m so tired of giving it to ghosts.

By Sinchana Srikanth Iyengar