Stop telling me I’m drunk so you think you have an excuse to touch me. I don’t need you holding my hand while I get a glass of water. I don’t need you to help me sit back down. I don’t need you touching my shoulders to “help” me sit up straight. I especially don’t need you caressing my head while I dozed off.

He loved me on the weekdays,
when he was clear-headed enough to comprehend
the effort of cultivating a semi-lasting relationship with someone else
because if he had the choice, he wouldn’t do it sober.