I don’t know where my anger comes from.
Ok

I lied

I do.

It comes from a man I knew before you who promised me a lifetime of stability. He used his slick words and false promises to guide my eyes elsewhere while he slithered around behind my back.
He once thought that buying me things would make me turn a blind eye to the promiscuity that was unfolding in the dark.

Men always thought I was complicated and hard to read. I don’t find myself so hard. All I crave is touch. The touch of a hand under the table on my leg. The caress of fingers on my face before sleep. A hug out of nowhere when it’s least expected.

I don’t want fancy things and expensive dinners. I don’t want diamond rings and new makeup. I want you to listen to me and touch me. Can’t you see? I’m a human who needs contact.

Why is that so hard?