Motherthing

by Ainslie Hogarth

I draw his hand to my mouth, take a nip of his skin between my teeth, try to suck the sadness from his pores like venom.

I guess that’s what rage is: the point where your words fail the power of your emotions.

Depression becomes this house, where it’s thrived in one form or another for at least thirty years: dark, claustrophobic rooms where bad thoughts collect like tide pools, slimy, brackish hazards, impossible to avoid.

Her voice was low. Notched. It made you think of a bread knife working its way through some stale loaf.

Boys are boys and they do what they want. Women want things too sometimes, but mostly they’re just warm sensory boards for men to tweak and rub and learn about themselves and the world through.

There’s just no greater feeling in the world than being loved by a man. By someone sensible. Someone who matters. It makes you feel legitimate in a way. You have to be real for a man to love you, you know?