They...

...ask me to wear leather, and I obey. Help me out of elevators when my heel is stuck. Place me on a pedestal despite my fear of heights and lack of grace. Attack me in deserted alleys. Ask to tie me up with my own scarf. Try to domesticate me in the kitchen. Call me a hopeless drifter. Handcuff me in the back of a cop car. Criticize my choice of music. Worry about me from miles away. Take me to concerts in limos. Rob me of my innocence. Get me drunk more often than not. Write me poetry. Phone me at all hours of the night. Corrupt me. Seduce me with words and political ideologies. Teach me inane vocabulary. Give me massages. Tell me what I want to hear. Praise me. Entice me. Confuse me. Destroy me. Come along when I least expect it.

They love me when I hate them, ignore me when I crave attention, twirl me in the moonlight, discount my intelligence, make me question who I am and what I want, ask me to travel the globe, send me packages in the mail, have me awaiting their next sentence, next email, next glance.

Of all of them, of all the guys, you’re the one I want to hear play “Wish you Were Here.” You’ve ruined my love of Pink Floyd. You’ve heightened my love of Pink Floyd. You’ve done something without meaning it, yet full of meaning. You scare me, you flatter me, you teach me and I don’t quite know what to say anymore, other than I don’t want them. And if you’re just fucking around I don’t think I’ll ever forgive you.