
My Human Footrest
Get under the table.
I don’t ask. I decide.
I sit above you, calm and comfortable, while you stay beneath me, silent, reduced to a single function:
supporting my feet.
You don’t deserve attention.
You don’t deserve eye contact.
Your place is low. Literally.
I rest my feet on you without a thought, the same way I would use any object meant to serve me.
You are not participating.
You are being used.
This isn’t intimacy.
This is hierarchy.
I am above.
You are furniture.
Stay still.
That’s all you’re good for.
