march’s last day feels far too unsettling. like the end of an era. the end of you.
despite how hard i’ve wished and prayed you weren’t the one. you are. and i know i can never love you how you want me to.
i have bookshelves of dreams. all dying to be the one i choose to live out.
i have a feeling that in the next fifty women you undress, all you will be able to see is that they are not, and could never be me.
when you come home and hold me, my anger and rage is soothed, and i am not a mad woman, but i am your happy wife.
someday this same version of me will come sprinting back to my memory. only then will i see that her heart is out of her chest and she’s beginning to bleed out.
i would much rather stay inside to do my skincare than go out and party all night. why does that make me a villain?
i can tell he’s mine because he whispers my name every night just before he falls asleep.
i take a deep breath in the mirror and think about how different i am now.
the bed groans under you weight as you slip in bed. warning me that it’s not just me, but that you smell like another woman.