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easily
distance myself from
him. But I want
someone—other than
a baby—to love, and
soon.
I miss feeling special.
Miss feeling beautiful.
I only hope I haven’t
become
impossible for a guy to look
at with lust in his eyes.
Halfway Home I Stop
For a small pick-me-up,
not because I particularly
need it (my eyes are wide,
wide open), but because I can.
I have stash. It’s talking to me.
One little hit, my heart revs
high, then settles into quick-
step mode. How I’ve missed
that race and pound. How
I’ve missed the lack of control.
It makes no sense. I know
that. But I’m sick of making
sense. Sick of being sensible.
As I consider that, it hits me
that I haven’t called Mom.
Now it’s much too late.
Is she pacing the floor, ready
