LOVE ME

 We were such a normal couple. 

He was four months older than me, and we were so in love—or at least I thought we were.

He smelled like deep forest musk.
I smelled like yearning. Want. Need.
I don’t know why. I wash, but it only makes the scent stronger.

“You know, I bet you taste as good as you look.”

Do you forget that I’m human too?
Or do you only remember the things you want me to do—how I could please you?

I know when you look at me, all you see is my body. It takes over my personality before I ever get a chance to speak.
“Oh, what big boobs you have.”
They’re nice, right?
Hey—I really like you.

But we were never meant to be lovers. Only friends with benefits.
And every time you become a part of me, then leave, I miss you. So maybe I’ve become part of the problem too.

The only time we don’t argue is when we’re touching each other.
But is that really love?

You don’t love me. You wouldn’t even know its name.
And I think it’s because, time and time again, we never actually learned how to love each other.

You don’t even know how to pronounce my name—and somehow, you blame that on me.
Meanwhile, I know your birthday, your age, your height, your allergies, and more.

Because to me, it is that much.
Because if we’re becoming one, you should at least know my name.

But I will forever be a pretty face and a body you desire—
because all you ever think about is getting off,
never the people who actually need you.