Just be honest.
Loving you was the bravest thing I ever did.
Blame genetics. Blame evolution. Blame her parents. Blame the planets for the way that they aligned in the sky that night.
I know you didn’t leave by choice. Neither of us expected me to miss you this goddamn much.
I think of you
at 2 a.m.
dancing around my bedroom by myself,
surprised by how much I can move
in the space
you no longer occupy.
Not to brag or anything, but I can make some bomb ass blanket forts, with the assistance of your living room furniture and my inability to grow up.
Call me crazy, but I swear, I can’t help but see the entirety of my childhood reflected in your face. When I look at you, I can’t help but feel a little homesick.
Thank you for keeping me from drifting away from myself, or drowning in anyone else’s expectations.
We live in a society that, as it has been made even more evident across the United States this week, desperately clings to this ideology that a woman’s primary purpose is to be a mother.
What you are telling me is that his few moments of pleasure are worthy of my entire lifetime of trauma.