How to make her desire me – Read Poems aka Dinosaurs

ABOUT THE POEM: "How to make her desire me" is a cutting and psychologically manipulative monologue that dissects the power dynamics in a relationship where one partner (the narrator, speaking as the "queen") holds complete control. The piece asserts that desire is not earned through kindness but through calculated scarcity and emotional stinginess. The narrator maintains power by framing the other person as a desperate "fan" and "predator" who is addicted to the very pain and misery caused by her intentional absence and demands for a sharper, less needy intellect.

How to Arouse Desire? To make them want you, let them taste you-at the pace you set. But you can never gauge their appetite. You feed a predator and expect love? That’s when it dangles forever between guilt and self-pity. No matter how sweetly you play the prey, the predator won’t be kind. They’ll savor your misery, devour all of you, yet never grasp that they can’t disappoint you endlessly and still demand your craving.
To them, you’re a fly to swat, a fool needing constant direction. Hey you-what’s with this thirst for endless attention? Don’t you know the tide can turn anytime? That scrap you’re getting could vanish if you beg for more. Remember: I’m not the one who wants you. You’re the one chasing me. Son, you’re just a fan; I’m the queen. Our bond? My availability, on my terms.
I know you miss how, just moments ago, you felt essential to me. But dear, there are fires to tend-situations, people demanding me. You’re just… you. Sometimes, your intensity exhausts even a woman’s heart. How do you bear it? I’m seeking a man of sharper intellect, one who reads my needs and delivers. I don’t trade gifts or money for instant love-I’m human too, maybe wishing for a genie.
I’ve left you nothing to toy with anyway. If you insist on playing, drop the neediness. Keep swiping, but the game’s done, dude. I’m walking with the prize and trophy. Save your tantrums for Mom.
Once the animal’s trapped in the iron maiden, or the fish hooked, it might seem like skill on my part. But sweetheart, the real talent isn’t the hook-it’s your hunger for the sting, your drive to rise through the pain. I tease it in my absence, mix it with pity-love when I’m near, giving you just a glimpse of care. You crave being tended. But I’m no hunter-you’re too naive to grasp the hunt’s fine print. I’m too sharp to squander time on your pleas.
Listen: Stand firm. Be a man. I have commitments. They might be waiting.