If I was smaller and cuter, would you consider me? Maybe it’s stupid, maybe it’s cruel, but I’ve begun to grow tired of this. My only hope is that one day my physical self will no longer deter you from allowing yourself to be loved by me.
Love is a strong word, but I want to care for you. I want to soak your tears into my skin and count the lashes on your eyes. You remind me so much of a dog, and I want to own you.
Like a pet, like a lover, like you’re the dearest thing to me. Let me put out my smokes on you and brand myself onto you. I don’t want you to forget the sensation.
I want to treat you right. I want to make you happy. I want to know what it feels like to have your eyes glued onto mine, two spheres unable to trail anywhere else.
Is that selfish of me to want? You will never see me for who I am, rather what I present physically, and that’s okay. I’ve learned to accept that, to accept this.
You make me cry, and I like it.
It makes me feel so real.
You made me feel real.
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