I.

Two weeks go by.
No follow-up.
No regrets either—for the most part.

(Yeah, I really would have liked that footjob.)

Whatever.

I don't need that kind of responsibility.
At least not at the moment.

(Post-)Life goes on.
There are other needs.

II.

I keep a supply
in a locked refrigerator.
I don't give it any cute nicknames
or euphemistic labels
— "House Red"
"Plasma al Pomodoro"
"Crimson Tide" —
that's not my style.
I'm not into playing with my food.

At the moment,
it's running critically low.

III.

Contrary to myth,
not all of us go into a rage
during withdrawals.

I become more like my usual self,
only hungrier,
lonelier,
needier,
hornier,
and worse at grammar,
apparently.

Well, there's only so much self-loathing
I'm willing to put up with.

Time for a refill.