I am meshed together by little pieces, little pieces of him, of her, of that memory, of that night, of that thought, of that fear, of the constant builded mess, of them. I am desperately meshing myself together with tiny pieces in order to maintain my fraud whole. I guess everyone is though, in a sense.
tboydivision-deactivated2022091:
men be like: oh no,, my ego, my poor ego! oh woman, could you spare a stroke? stroke my ego just once? oh, you refuse? that’s fine, i don’t mind. i diagnose you with whore
I sit with my grief. I mother it. I hold its small, hot hand. I don’t say, shhh. I don’t say, it is okay. I wait until it is done having feelings. Then we stand and we go wash the dishes.
— Callista Buchen, from “Taking Care,” published in Thrush
