You call me promiscuous but that's clearly an understatement

I might need you because you are not good to me. You leave me waiting by the phone, you turn to the world when I need you by my side (but only for an hour, I swear), you do not give me the attention I'm spoiled with, you let me know that this is not forever, that this is not even for the present. I subject to this, rationalizing the educational value in this degradation.

As I ask if you'd like to do something with/to me, your beautiful eyes rest solely on my unworthy face. "What do you have in mind?", you reply with a quirky smile. And I can't stop laughing, so I give myself away. You give me your phone number and when the night arrives I cannot fall asleep.

I hate these silences you force on me when we're apart, I cannot deal with them very well. I know they're supposedly useful, potential situations for testing my virtue, my patience or another fuckable category. You chastise me, enforcing virtuousity, when all I want is your body to indulge in. (And all my knowledge of you is put to shame, you never behave the way you were biologically determined to.)

I might need this rawness, your rudeness, your anti-love. I think I need someone else to do the hating for me, you see, the contempt. (Reason does not work when it comes to me and you, I'm pledged to this, I have to, I want to, won't have it any other way, I need you, I need you, I need you to tie me up, to leave me waiting, to let me down, to leave me, to tear my heart to pieces, to use me, abuse me, so I can leave this country with nothing more than bare shoulders and a picture of you.) I should revise my worldview anyway. I might get used to this lot, since my righteous benevolence-account ran out of credit.

I called you last Saturday to ask what you were up to. I hear your voice and want to send you small flowers in brightly packaged boxes, in golden wrapping, with chinese notes about how I [heart] you. I walk the streets with soul in my headphones, hoping I'll see your smile in the sunshine behind the corner, wishing for spring so I can walk the streets in my ballerinas so you see how small my feet are compared to yours.

And you let me know quite harshly that this is not forever, that my need for someone who is not good to me is just childish and stupid. I can't fight in English, I'm sorry. You give me roles I hate, but I play them well. You give me names I resist but I use them in secret. You categorize me and I wait for the next night so I can be close to you and feel your breath against my back when you're doing me wrong, when you're telling me my life story, my resemblance to daughters of the street.

Reason is not for this. You know, I need the feeling, but the feeling is you. Yeah, the feeling is you. Needable.