I got an email from a lawyer this week about the dissolution of my marriage though I'm not the one who's retained one. While walking to the vending machine for a snack at work, I saw the subject line, not recognizing the address it came from, as my eyes scanned the attached letter. I remember feeling the anxiety that was translating into anger. I ended up forgetting what I went downstairs for, so I went into one of the single-stall bathrooms to process.

I cry a lot more now than I ever did growing up. I find myself in tears, wondering if the reaction I'm having is even appropriate because I know there should be some relief knowing the legal beginning to this relationship's end has begun. There is, but I tend to feel multiple emotions at once. I want to think that I'm not alone there.

I don't want to think about this anymore. I want to swipe this responsibility under the rug and move on with my life. But, I know if it's left there unattended to, mold and bacteria will grow, creating a more significant problem than what I started. It's best to take care of it while the wounds are fresh, so everything heals properly.

On top of the plate of emotions that my ex served me, my life gave me a big ol' bowl of dry-pussy energy for dessert. It's awful, and I don't know how to break the curse. That's not true, and I'm also dramatic. It's been months since I've had someone touch me softly and grab me tightly in places they know best, and I'm struggling with it. Masturbation can only do so much. It's not that I want to have someone get me off; it's the game before that's played that I miss. The breathlessness or the way my hair is pulled when I'm in between their legs, which is the universal sign not to stop. Being told not to stop.

I need to stop; I've got to get ready for work.

caught at the intersection

of longing for your touch

and being exhausted

at the thought

of putting on a show

for you