I don’t want your arms. Compared to the ones that hold me now, they leave the world to be desired. And I don’t want your eyes, they were never my favorite thing about you. And the texture of your hair was course and it would ensnare my fingers - so I don’t want that either. And I don’t want your mouth - running, and running, and running about all the things I pretended to care about, just to earn your attention. And your lips were wet, slimy even. And I certainly don’t want your nose. I suppose your ears are alright. And I always liked the nape of your neck.
But really, I just want to be the one who doesn’t want you.
