Because it’s something you should start considering.
Because it’s something I’ve privately prided myself on being able to do, if only for a short while after the fact.
Because I don’t give a **** if it’s wrong, and I’m weak—just wanted you to entertain the question.

I don’t care which part of me it is, either.
I don’t care if our talks on your back porch peeled back so much of your skin that all of your blood leaked out, and you’ll spend months trying to take somebody else’s.
I don’t care if the impression of my face on your pillow makes the asymmetry of others’ burn—so bad that you’ll prefer dark spaces.

I hope the smell of my neck on your sheets violently pulls you from sleep, especially if it’s not even there.
I hope someday you find the sock I lost on the side of your bed, and it beats you in a staring contest.
I hope someday it finally creeps in on you that everything I said when I was joking, I meant—so much of what you own is stupid.

Maybe you’ll remember being so sickeningly sweet, in spite of yourself, and turn bitter from the inside out.
Maybe you’ll be preoccupied with the moments I allowed you to think there was nothing I could stop you from,
and maybe you’ll cringe when you realize it wasn’t the physicality of it that I wanted—it was any small power.  

Because I don’t give a **** if it’s wrong,
and I’m weak