You remember too much,
my mother said to me recently.
Why hold onto all that?
And I said,
Where do I put it down?
I miss how you wanted me.
People don’t listen, they just wait for their turn to talk.
I just want to be fucked, loved, and spoiled.
She wanted something else, something different, something more. Passion and romance, perhaps, or maybe quiet conversations in candlelit rooms, or perhaps something as simple as not being second.