My Marital Clock​

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My marital clock is ticking. Six months ago, I thought I never wanted to get married; too patriarchal, too hetero. Now I’ve become kind of obsessed with the idea.

I want someone to see taking care of me as a legal obligation. I want commitment by contract. I’m aroused by duty and devotion.

Devote yourself to me. I’ll get a fancy pen for us to sign our names to each other. What’s yours is mine, what’s mine is yours, you are mine, and I am yours.

I’m not good with possessions, human or non. I’d like to nix that part. We’ll be individualistic individuals, but take care of each other and try to make reigniting the passion a fun game. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to get to the part of the relationship where sex is boring and you have to try new things. I want that.

Bore me orgasmless, pick fights with me over what we’re having for dinner, monotony marriage makes, make me miss myself by myself.

I want to do the work of a marriage. Let's do our taxes together like the successful business our relationship is. Our house, our storefront, adorned in a collection of our your favorite things. Your taste has always been good, but never better since I came along to egg you on. Let’s compliment each other so much that we get sick, like kids full on candy.

Carry my fictitious children, maybe. I’m not sure I want a baby, but I’d never be able to deny you of your dreams. We just have to get rich first. I’ve liked this less since motherhood got involved. Maybe tomorrow.

Make my mom more bearable. You’ll like her. She’s funny. Your mom will scare me. Hold my hand in the car, and shove it off in a fight.

I want your love before it’s denied. I want to kiss so much that our lips locking is like tying your shoes or brushing your teeth or doing the dishes or setting your alarm clock.

I’m the big spoon, but sometimes brave enough to be the little spoon. I’ll be tender for you if you’ll be tender for me.

Just promise me you’ll never stop telling me how good my pussy tastes.