Something wrong with me

I can kiss you if you ask, on your neck, on your cheek, nose, lips, eyelids, hand, tell me and I will. I have a fear of being wrong, so please show me everything right, show me how to be right for you.

I'm desperate to be called good again, to be caressed, touched, and tired. I see what's wrong when you pin my hands to the bed and your face reminds me that I am disgusting to want love from a man like you. My sanity is falling and my lungs are failing and I think my flailing body won't move me any farther away from the current anymore. I need to try. Do it myself, willingly be by myself.

Just, please on Monday, when I see you with your slicked-back hair and tattoos and kind, eager mouth, please — fuck my heart out, call me heartless. I don't want this anymore.