Ordering a short four-pump-sugar-free-vanilla soy one-scoop matcha green tea latte with whipped cream means you're insecure about your social standing.

Yes, throw me, pin me to that wall like a still life of a bowl of fruit, framed by your hands and hold me steady with your hips. I want to throw love and lust against that wall like fucking Jackson Pollock and tell everyone it is sponge-painting.

You say you find barista innocuously sexy, so let’s have a whipped-cream fight and roll around in mocha, and oh, tell me exactly what you want, and if it’s not perfect, I’ll do it again until it is.

Let me in, let me in, let me into your brick house. I don’t have to stay, I don’t do sleepovers, we barely fit the requirements for “dating”.

I know you want to be the fucker because to be the fuckee means to allow me in, to let me know the last physical and maybe but probably not emotional parts of you because you are an emotional black hole, suck it all in and let it float around where it can and will be ignored.

It could be maybe also because you really enjoy it, but I’m a college student and need to psychoanalyze everything.