death by dial

I just want to see you cry
what do you even cry about?
do you even cry at all?
I saw a book in your room
that also sat on my shelf before
it’s a workbook for anxiety
I wasn’t making fun of you
I was bursting at the seams
because I fucking get it
I see you

you said I used you like a sex object
you’re the one who always texted me
late at night, asking for pictures and videos
telling me I drive you crazy and
I’m the best sex you’ve ever had
I just like your attention
even if it was empty
it was sufficient
for what I needed at the time
now my glass is full with the
liquid I’ve made with my
bare fucking hands
so when I ask for more it’s not
because I wanted to drink you then
it’s because I’m desperately thirsty now
in this new kitchen, with sunlight and plants
my kitchen, built by my hands

I didn’t have much before
now I romanticize evening showers
and early mornings at my dining table
but I would be lying if I said I didn’t
want to share it with you, sometimes
I don’t know what you’re actually like
but I have a feeling you would like
cuddling with me on my couch
and cooking salmon, rice and sprouts
getting high and reading books together
sitting on the porch arguing even
I mean we could have sex too,
I know you like me in bed
but I want to see what you’re like
sitting in my kitchen, built by my hands
you know I had no kitchen
to speak of when we first met