Out on a Limb

by Hannah Bonam-Young

That’s how men get you. A false sense of comfort, and then boom—ten months later you’re telling people you have allergies to avoid explaining your red-rimmed eyes again.

I, like most women my age, have learned to hate myself just enough to appease others.

Because, from where I’m standing, that man looks at you like you hung the moon. More than that. The sun too.

Choose to fill me up instead of pour me out.