I’m so full of you that there are parts of me that can only respond to your touch. My hair, my mouth, my throat: they’re all anxious for you. They’re all waiting. Anyone else feels like they don’t belong. But you, you’ve got me all wired up, nerves twisted into knots, hands fucking shaking before they’ve even touched. You feel like home even though you’re not. That’s the most terrifying part of it all. You’re not, but the rest of me is convinced that you are.