I don’t know why I keep coming back to you. At the end of the night I know you’re there waiting for me–dressed in what I can only describe as taboo and delicious. It’s this desire that holds me by the throat and drags me through your door night after night. I know I shouldn’t. But I do and you don’t even give a fuck about me. Our initial moments are heaven. Rapture. Asylum from all of the feelings swirling and swinging at my insides. Then when I get home you cause havoc. I see what I had, what was always there in my fridge and what I betrayed and a weight pulls me to the floor. The morning after I’m stuck alternating between the couch and bathroom because as delicious as you are, Mac n’ Cheese Meatloaf hoagie, you leave me broken. The side of poutine also doesn’t help.