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It was always another man.

Lots and lots of them, picking me up, buffeting me about and leaving me lying on the grass -- the aftershock of a testosterone-driven tornado.
I always go through with it when I put too much milk in with the eggs. I still whisk it all together, mindful of the edges, and joyful at the bubbles that form and the swishing sound the wires make as they cut through the goo. If the lighting(more)
Another man would ask for food, a burger with avocado, steak, pizza -- I don't know -- something SOMETHING. But this. I don't know.

Another man would ask for pictures of his family, his kids. Everyone smiling. Rubbing at the memories like there used to be a sca(more)
Dear Lizzie,
After everything we've been through together, you have to know you can tell me anything!
Besides, I love hearing you talk about A, you sound like the Lizzie I used to know before we both got married. I know we've always been sporadic in our letter-writing bu(more)
He is organizing the pages of my existence like the dusty tales between his eyes.