I did something really bad. I knew that if I got you drunk, you would fuck me. You found me attractive, you had told me this, but you didn’t want a relationship. Tempting you with whiskey, I laid my trap and you fell right into it.
I had a heart attack and was hospitalized. Your white knight complex kicked in and you began to care about my health; “no caffeine, no alcohol, no marijuana, lots of water, good sleep, balanced diet,” you scolded me when I showed you the electrodes that are now affixed to my chest, leaving me rubbed and raw and feeling bionic.
Craving attention, I called you over late at night. You called me a sleepy kitten, but I begged you to fuck me. Laughing, you obliged, discovering my multifaceted body and personality. You were terrified that you would cause my heart to stop again, and I almost wish it did. As you covered me like a blanket, it hit me that I had begun to care about you and I needed it to stop.
A week later, I realized that you were in love with another woman. I could see it in your eyes, behind your wide frame hipster glasses, and the way your hands shook when she texted you. I told you to go, leaving me naked and alone, swaddled in Star Wars sheets, heart monitor beeping slowly as I drifted off to sleep.
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