I want my man like I want
my books: warm to touch,
smooth on the inside but
rough along the edges,
leather-bound with a hard
back, filled with sordid
stories to tell.


Honestly, you don’t have to take me anywhere. You don’t have to buy me anything. You don’t have to do any of those cliche rituals that people think are required of them when they are in a relationship. You just have to see me. Take the time. Care enough to peel back my layers and scale my walls. That’s all I really want. I can buy my own flowers.