People say How are you doing
and I tell them about the cracks in my calendar,
about the dog at the window, about you
and your desk with all your hard work.
I don’t mention the ways I’m unsure of this body,
her unfamiliar softness, her rounded down corners.
I don’t mention the floors. How the laminate is peeling. How it drives us crazy when it sticks to bare feet. I leave out the bit about my dying plants, how the first floor and I are always wanting for light. I don’t mention the mornings, which are lush with calm. Or how I feel most alive when it’s about to storm. We skate by on niceties. I hold my cards to my chest. But instead of saying, wasn’t she polite, I’d rather them say oh wasn’t she human?
Written by Sarah A. Speed // Writing the Good
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Every night we sit on the couch. Your arm around my shoulders, my knees pulled towards my chest. We eat dinner. We talk about the day. The dog sleeps, belly up nestled on top of our sock feet. And eve