It’s 2 a.m., my usual time to wake up and reconsider all of my life’s choices and actions and thoughts.
It’s hot in the room; I can smell and feel the sweat between my legs where the pale flesh touches, blood and earth. I open the window--with the action accepting that I am awake and giving into the fate of rising and thinking.
Outside, bullfrogs are gently thrumming their song to one another, the rhythmic and sleepy ruhm ruhm ruhm oddly comforting. I do not feel as alone when I hear them--though am I ever alone?
The dog is pressed into my back, marking where we touch with more of my sweat. The cat, concerned that perhaps I have gotten up to feed him and forgotten, creeps upward to politely remind that he exists.
How can I feel alone when I have this perfect bubble of constant affection. How can I worry I was not enough for one child-man when I have been in my life a warrior queen. It makes me angry--at him, at myself.
Somehow I let him break me down into pieces. I’ve been gluing my pieces together for decades.
Mortar, metal. I am impenetrable.
Who was he to chip away at them, to dig his nails into me and pull me apart and drop me on the ground one-by-one and then tell me I am too broken?
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