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Vulnerability calls me on a dull Thursday evening, dressed like an eager boy with nervous hands and dark-rimmed glasses. Wet peaches. I devour boys like you for breakfast. I punish myself for wanting and taking, and then wanting more. Mouthfuls of cream. My mother said women are good for two things. The first was between my legs. The second, I’d learn when I got older. Purple figs covered in hot honey. On her deathbed, she said I looked awful and refused to let me see her towards the end. She didn’t want me to see her like that. Unmade. Undone. I want all the sweet things. For love to last longer than an evening. All the jam-covered biscuits I’ve never eaten. Sun-soaked lilies from a lover in my kitchen. Sweaty plum tomatoes from my dead grandmother’s garden. My mother’s last words to me to be kind. I want all the sweet things. I want all the sweet things. I want all the sweet things. But only when I deserve them.