How was the play, why did you go back home,
how’s your anxiety?
I broke up with X. It was hard.
nothing to do with it.
I don’t need anything serious,
but I can’t strictly sext and fuck you.
Can we get to know each other better?
In an un-compartmentalized way.
Let’s puzzle together
my paralyzing attraction to you and
your flaccid resolve to not-get-involved
in a mutually beneficial, healthy way.
I’m single now.
Boys ask me out on dates.
I say yes.
If we can proceed in an honest way, Call me.
Let’s not find out what’s driving
you to cum so hard when I writhe,
the teensie shards that prick my heart.
That ticking bomb beneath our chemistry.
Me. My head. My mouth.
Joke about marriage and give me pills.
Feed me tea with store-bought lemon juice.
Make me cry for you to let me cum.
Walk me to my car.
Breakfast burritos or something paleo - whatever.
Hold my hand. Ruffle my hair.
Send me a joke that makes me laugh, for once.
Don’t make me work so hard.
Speak French to me.
Make fun of me.
Fill up my water bottle.
Let me touch you before you man-scape;
like a true Semite, the hairier the better.
drip all over you
fuck the fight out of me
you don’t need to be alone to become who you already are