I’m tired of being their warm glass of milk right before bed. They tell me, “You’re the thing I think about when I need to heighten my arousals.” When the tv doesn’t suffice, I’m the thing they think about all night. Well. Before my eyelashes kiss my upper cheek, I’m mindfully seeping into my vicinity. They never loiter where I can find them and I’m never peering through blinds to. I never think about you. I’m curating my internal safe haven. I’m sculpting my distresses and presenting them as Met Gala dresses. I’m telling myself dirty secrets to watch the secretions spur out of me like all of our failed agreements. I’m tasting myself and I am decadent. They always ask if they can get a sip. I tell them not even a bit.