Let’s play pretend, Mother.

But the real question here is- will we ever say it out loud? This game of play pretend. Will we ever break-free from this routine? Or will I continue to play this game with my daughter as well?

Look, just what you made me do

I don’t know if you’ll read this
And I hope you never do
But yes, you are an asshole
And I know you know that too

Love, Rosie

Loving you feels like the first rain of the monsoon, a cup of chai on a winter morning, that one song of nostalgia on a long drive, a recurring deja vu of us dancing in circles, in an ending loop of love and longing.

when you were everything.

“I love you, too,” I whisper back with my lips pressed to his. He tastes like cheese and pepperoni and the next sixty years of my life. His embrace is gentle and his hair dampened by the rains.

Bruises and blood.

Your voice, like nails biting on my flesh, clawing onto my insecurities in the name of beauty. Beauty which you see on my face, my pale skin, and my long, cascading locks.

An old routine.

I was a fool to think that this time, it would be different. It would be better. A fool to mistake my wounds as healed, over the span of time I’d spent hiding the agony in a dark corner, wishing it would eventually go away, if I just pretend it was never even there.