I'm the family vampire.

I cry like clockwork. I drink the milk. Consume her flesh. Run her ragged with unreasonable demands.
She offers a hand, I claw at her arm. More. More! Give me more!
I should be satisfied with clothes that don't fit. Food that grates my senses. Roofs that are weaponized as a threat. Behave. Sit in the corner. Seen and not heard. Or it all goes away.
But I am a gluttonous wretch and I still demand more. Play with me. Talk to me. Affirm me. Teach me. See me. Know me. Love me. Give me a home.

I made friends with a fellow vampire. The lipstick I gave her blood red.
She sends me consistent encouragement from the safety of her bed.
She cuddles her cat, I cuddle with mine. She educates plenty, no need to rewind.
The same urge hits, extending her hand. I reach for her arm, she'll never be mine. And she says so. She very clearly tells me no, and I—stop. I never even thought I might be capable of respecting that. My mother was terrified of saying that word to me, you see, so I believed I was doomed to trespass the line.

Instead, I adapt. New philosophy: What is mine will always find a way into my mind. You are not mine, but you walk beside me and it's fun. You play with me. Talk to me. Affirm me. Teach me. See me. Know me. Love me.
You have your own home and I have mine. You never threaten to pull back in time. You don't even try to get me to behave, if anything you encourage me to misbehave, but only when the consequence is a little bit of fun. You warn me against damaging consequences.

I'm stunned. Won't accept being shunned. It's hard for me to trust, but every time we vibe I regret difficult tries a little less. My mind is a proper mess, but through gentle exposure under your kind gaze, I allow myself to slowly erase this graphite mountain of shame.