“I don’t remember birthdays or anniversaries.
“I don’t hold hands.
“I don’t do morning texts because I don’t do mornings—fuckmornings.”
And he’s just staring at me,
with those fucking eyes.
“I don’t want your hoodie.
“I don’t want to sleep next to you.
“I don’t care about your childhood,
“your past,
“your family.
“I don’t care about how your day was.
“Don’t want you caring about mine.
“You ask about my day?
“It's fine. It’s always fucking fine.
“I don’t do small talk?—
“it makes me want to punch drywall.
“I will text back with my entire soul or not at all—either annoying as fuck or dead. There’s no in between.
“And everything will always be on my time.”
“Cuddling? Nope. Aux cord? Mine. Forever.
“Can’t cook worth a damn.
“Don’t wanna hear your playlists.
“And I don’t care about feelings.
“They’re exhausting.I’mexhausted.”
A breath.
“So, yeah.”
I gesture up and down my body.
“Seriously. Red flags all around.
“I’m territorial, possessive as hell, a control freak,
“and selfish as fuck, with a bad mouth?—”
I hold up a finger. “Not filthy—bad.
