Kedestria

leave roses with thorns on my stairwell, the kind that would entice me when i was fourteen but now serve as silent irritation—when we eat steak, use your thinnest, sharpest knife to cleave the meat into tiny squares and let me watch you wash it and put it away when you’re done—open your packages with your trusty pocket knife, peter pan boy scout, and when i move in, let me borrow it; don’t question the t-shirts i order in winter and the sweatshirts i order during the sweltering heat of summer—when i lay beside you at night and talk about the state of the universe that day, nibble on my ear, scratch my arm, sl