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we had settled into the kind of comfortable predictability that couples often mistake for happiness.
Killing Dean, in theory, was not about ending his life; it was about reclaiming mine. It was about staring into the abyss of my own despair and choosing, instead, to rewrite the ending.
how the man I once found irresistible has morphed into this stranger I barely recognize—a stranger with whom I share a mortgage and a web of lies.
I no longer feel the need to dim my own light to match his dull glow.
when I'm overdrawn and bankrupt of fucks to give.
His proclamation, meant to sooth, only fans the flames of my indignation.
Sleep didn't come, so I fell into the rhythm of baking, an act of creation to offset the destruction I'd wrought.
Life didn’t pause for grief or guilt, and despite everything, it was still a normal day, with the demands of daily routines waiting impatiently.
I already have someone in mind—a potential suitor who doesn’t yet know he’s been chosen.
There's a magnetic quality in his ugliness—an
On nights I couldn't muster the will, Michael would pitch an indecent fit, hissing threats about older women who could serve his desires more willingly.
her version of trying hard looks like a lifestyle, while mine feels like an act.
No one knows that Dean was one of the orderlies at the mental institution I was in.
We had once defied the odds, but now it seemed those odds were catching up to us.
weekly excavation of my soul,
