Men can love you and have no understanding of what or who you are. And in some sick, fucked up way, you will always prefer the men who despise you. You think that perhaps, they understand you more.

I fell for him, like empires fall. Into decay and disillusionment. In dire need of reserection. With rich, forgotten history. My scattered parts have been handled, inspected by someone else, with no awareness of their meaning. I need someone to unearth my mystery, restore the forbidden knowledge. Get on your hands and knees, and dig me up. Translate my inscriptions. Critique me. Curate me. Collect me. Confront me. Carry me to new terrain. Catalyze me and fill me up.

Give me the lover who yells. Give me the lover who yanks open the bathroom door, presses open the dimly lit stall, keeps me there, til I am shaking. Give me the lover who understands the cities of my body, resurrects my obelisks, restores my drive. I want to lie down somewhere and wait, until I tremor. I want him in bars and backrooms and parking lots and passenger seats. Give me a lover who will restore my destiny before I become derelict.