When He Asked If He Could Touch Me In Public
I watched him between my legs,
his hold firmer
I watched him between my legs,
his hold firmer
It’s 9:51pm and it’s been over 3 hours since I punched those letters for the last time.
I may still be a hoarder like my younger self, but not of things—instead of experiences and people.
There’s this thing we do when something ends: we focus on all the good parts. The moments of affection, of feeling safe, of…
I’m the one who’ll call you out.
I’ve heard this argument before. A few nights ago and a couple nights before that and a night before that. They argue and scream and slam, and then, in the silence of 4 am, a different kind of pounding erupts—the kind of making up.
I didn’t just miss the signs; I ignored them. I made excuses for his behavior.
It’s 9:51pm and it’s been over 3 hours since I punched those letters for the last time.
I would choose my 31-year-old self over my 24-year-old self a million times over
all I know right now are my tears and snot have soaked the sheets around me