Boots & Curls

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  • Weight of the Key

    Weight of the Key

    The quiet hits first.
    Always.

    That breathless, hold the keys to keep the noise minimal quiet that meets me at the door every day…wraps around my ankles like a fog, asking, “Are you sure you want to come back in tonight?”

    But still…I fumble and quickly press the key and turn. Silent. Quick. Like a thief in my own life.

    I slip in before Coco Milo bolts, before the grief and second thinking sets in and I immediately start thinking how to keep my mind busy. Vodka and other spirits aren’t an option. I’m proud of at least that since I’ve been here. I’ve kept that promise. But the silence whispers quickly….I don’t want to hear it. But the sink is clean…clothes are hung…I have meals in the fridge….so all I can focus on is that post-work walk with Remi and coming back to inevitable vacuuming and digging for cat piss and shit in the litter box because we are so close yet so far from potty training this Siamese cuddle bug with claws.

    My purse is safe…remembered my badge;
    Exhale.
    Shoes put back in the closet…..NOT the middle of the floor;
    Good job, W.

    Realization that always hits….still wont stop…unfortunately:
    There is no one here to ask how my day was. No here to care if I’m alright. No one to make sure I have dinner or check if I’ve drank enough water or actually push me to go do something fucking proactive.

    No one’s here to care that I’m still alive.
    That I survived…again.

    And that…
    Is both full fledged freedom….and absolute hell.

    I keep the lights dim or minimal…I don’t like big lights. It just feels….comforting.

    Something my therapist asked in one session when I was in a dimly lit room why I preferred it that way….But I said I wasn’t sure…I just felt safe and comforting…not loud and blaring. She said something so strange and cryptic but also now looking back made a little sense: “Light lies…Light pretends” I should know this. I was (maybe still somewhat am in a sad little way) a photographer. Light can make or break a photo, an image, a feeling, a vision.

    But it’s so freaking true and makes a little sense now….Light makes you feel like you SHOULD be okay. But when you’re so used to and been in the dark…sometimes the middle of darkness and light feels safe…like between the breaking, frothing edges of waves that just barely kiss your heels but they don’t quite touch. It’s so hard to explain my brain. I’m so sorry.

    Like the living room should be warm and full of laughter….that birthdays should mean something…that love should be promised to…

    But I’ve learned something about light…maybe even made it worse for my own living situation or whoever is brave enough to share the same space…Light doesn’t always tell the truth.

    I didn’t want a gift this year.
    Didn’t ask for candles or cake or even closure.

    But there was something. And trust me…I didn’t know it yet but I fought whatever it was like tooth and nails and the damn plague.

    But there it was…

    A text to look on the hood of my car. I went out after work.

    And should I say….”This is all I got…” or “And THIS is what I got…”???

    Regardless…neutral description…big black gift bag….rose gold bow that surprisingly was tied like it was from Nordstrom’s. I looked around, didn’t see anyone, but too scared to open it there in the Methodist parking lot….I put it in the front seat and left towards home.

    I pulled over just before FM 455.

    A back tank, a black hat, and leggings that would hug me too hard in all the wrong places. And a new phone case. All black.

    Weirdly…I loved it.

    And weirdly…I felt wrong.

    But I went home.

    And I wore them anyway.

    Was it armor? A comfort blanket? A curtain to hide? But my brain was thinking that maybe….if I looked like I belonged or mattered to someone…I could just fake being ok for just a little while longer.

    He was early. And with him beside me. Silent, but vocal. Steady but supportive. He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t push for pain. Didn’t look around the gym. I did notice that. He was always focused on me. Then again…leg press does tend to make me focus on my legs and hoping I don’t piss myself so he could have.

    And then we moved. I was actually kind of proud that he couldn’t believe I had leg pressed what I did. But I brushed it off. I’m so under his league.

    He handed me a weight like he just THOUGHT I could hold it.

    And for a few seconds I did.

    But what the fuck?!

    We joked, we laughed. I didn’t feel hidden, I didn’t feel quieted or made to feel small or made to feel like I could do better when I can’t.

    Coming home though….there was this confusing part…

    Sadly, truly….whatever you want to describe it as….the hardest part at this point wasn’t walking away. It was realizing how much of me still looked back.

    Because even in the stillness, even in the warmth and friendliness of someone knew that I fight so hard to keep at arms length who has not and will not dig or demand….I STILL FLINCH AT THE MEMORY OF SOMEONE WHO SWORE THEY WANTED ME…THE TRUTH….but then flinched, deflected, defended every time I did.

    P’s Dad….If you are even sporadically/luckily/possibly reading this….
    You said you wanted me to open up. That I could be emotional, messy, honest.
    You said you missed ME.

    But when I offered that version of myself….or acted on it…when I cracked the door open and showed you my fear and worries…
    …You pulled back like a fucking fire and blew up like water in a lit grease pan.

    Normal reaction to the physical grease pan or emotional situation with us…..YOU CLOSE IT….PUT A LID ON IT. Turn off the heat. Walk away. Eat tomorrow.

    Apparently…in your eyes….I only get to fall apart 100% completely and be unwillingly to help you finally and be labeled as broken.

    You said you were drained…
    I get it…
    Have you considered me…
    I’m not trying to compare…
    But so am I.

    Yet here I am.
    Keeping distance. But still venues of communication and keeping unfortunately delusional men around who honestly will just be used.

    Thinking now…

    This age is fuckin cruel…
    Everything ticks and toks….
    My skin. My brain. My body.
    My budget. My grief.
    My daughter’s growth. My face and wrinkles.
    My eggs even scream yet whisper, “TIME, TIME, TIME.”

    And I just want to yell, “LET ME CATCH MY DAMN BREATH.”

    But I don’t.

    Too nice apparently.

    Just keep breathing, let it burn at this point.

    I moved my red step stool into the bathroom. I sat on the edge of it on the late night hours of my birthday after that gym session, looking in the reflection.

    The black hat.

    Hair braided.

    Surprised by the sight of my collar bones and slight differences in my body.

    But still I self sabotaged…

    “Still too soft,”
    “Still not enough,”

    Hey…but I’m still upright and not wasted. Could that be a win…?

    Would you believe me if I told you I still replay the fiery parts of us as much as the silence between us?
    Not the shouting. Not the cracks. But the hollow parts where I thought maybe, maybe a little bit of a maybe, you’d come back with a clear head and a kind heart and sweet, tender tone. But as you said….it’s drained. So “just once” is a wish. It’s gone.

    This man…

    This man, doesn’t fill the space….
    Doesn’t ask for more than I can give….
    I ask him to leave…he leaves….
    I don’t text back and I’m not made to feel like a horrible asshole.

    He has so far managed to make the air feel a little less sharp around me.

    He doesn’t know what I’m carrying. I have no problem showing him the device in my car. Perfect easy reason to make him run.

    bottom line…if anyone if ever comes across this…
    I’m between lonliness and peace.
    I’m between scarcity and stillness.
    I’m between missing — and building without.

    Maybe I’ll talk about this year one day. Maybe I’ll say the words out loud. But at this point of my mental health I’m supposed to dig and describe and fully immerse in what happened with not only “P’s Dad” but also my last ex. Fuck.

    So for now…this and it and whatever lives here.
    Black on black.
    Sad on Sad.

    Quiet gym sessions, new arms, just some trust at the very minimum. Not wanting to flinch.

    In a home I’m barely affording but fulling keeping it over my head.

    In the ghost of a man I loved…
    And the echo of who I’m becoming….

    I’m still here.
    I’m still walking.
    Still lifting.
    Still not gone.

    But you’re no help anymore.

  • take him

    I keep thinking about all the things I’ve done for you, all the things I’ve swallowed down without thanks or acknowledgment, and I can’t figure out why the hell I’m still fighting for someone who’s kept me tucked away in shadows and pockets for so long.

    When Hemi died…your dog…I listened to you scream and cry on the phone. I left my brand-new job after only three days. I was miscarrying on top of it all. And then came the posts. You wrote for her like you were auditioning for The Notebook: Canine Edition, on every platform, and not a single mention of me. Maybe that’s selfish of me to notice. But if Remi had died and you were the one holding me together with duct tape and bad coffee, I’d have mentioned you. I wrapped Hemi in a towel, got her into the truck myself, paid for her cremation…velvet embroidered pouch, nose and paw prints, the works. Bought a floating frame to hold her prints, a Polaroid, and a little name label just for you. I didn’t even feel like I could grieve her.

    A) I hadn’t been with her as long as you had, so it felt selfish to vent and cry about her.

    And B) you were so distraught and gutted that I didn’t want to add to your pain. So, I shoved my grief down deep, right alongside a hundred other things I never said.

    I’ve never been mentioned on social media except once, and even then, it was set to a restricted audience. You hid me like I was an embarrassing tattoo you got in college. I tried to meet your family…your mom was a two-time occurrence. I reached out to your sister, knowing it would make me look desperate, but the truth was you’d been hiding me from her since Christmas 2024. When the truth finally came out after your arrest, it was forced contact. And I think I could have had a good relationship with her. Matt? Logical, sensible, steady. The kind of man who talks in full sentences and actually means them.

    You’ve never asked to take a photo with me. Maybe it’s because I’m not what you’re used to, not what you chased before me. But even Shrek got a couple’s portrait with Fiona….and he was a literal swamp monster.

    My miscarriage? Left to fade into the background. You made it clear it wasn’t something you wanted. So, I dealt with it alone. Even though we weren’t in the best place, a small part of me was quietly excited. I had a child with a man who was horrible to me before, and she’s talented, smart, kind. I poured everything into C. She is smart because I taught her, read to her every night and unfortunately she grew up with me as I was doing my own growing up. And I lived through hell with her dad that I will never ever tell her. She thinks that living with cops being called to A’s and then having to find a place to sleep at night is crazy…and it is…but thank god she doesn’t know how many times I had to take her somewhere else because her dad was so high and angry that we weren’t safe. Nobody knows all those stories.

    So…Even if you didn’t stick around, it would have been one more chance to be a mother. That baby would have had the best big sister. And I would have had a purpose, the reason I’m out on this earth. Because I think I’ve put a damn good human being here already and would it be so horrible to ask for one more baby to pour myself into and feel whole again and distract from the outside world. Being a mom was the only place and way I felt good and that was my sole focus. I cry writing this right now because at this point…I’ll never get it. I won’t. And I need to work on that bullshit now with my therapist and guess I’ll just become a crazy dog lady.

    but when the miscarriage happened….

    ….I got blame. And maybe it’s for the better that the baby fucked off. Two now. Two are gone. I’m fuckigg no going to hell ain’t I? Shit. One by my choice, the other not mine

    . A lot of me resents you for that, but I can’t speak on it. What’s the point? You didn’t make my body fuck it off. You weren’t even in the same damn state. So of course it’s mine. And alcohol is easy to blame. Fine.

    The sex was passionate. Your words felt real. But were they? Maybe I’m just a good lay. I can suck dick well, and though I hate it, I squirt. Not something I’m proud of, but you’ve said it gets you off. Then again, that could have been a lie too.

    My DWI stopped me from working out with you. I could have pushed, blown up your relationship with Patrick, but I didn’t. I stayed in the shadows, believing you were defending me at first…later realizing you were just lying. And that “friend” of yours? Wouldn’t even let you crash on his couch when you had nowhere to go. What a friend.

    Ultimately, why am I fighting for someone who’s kept me tucked away in pockets and shadows for so long?

    So, here are my promises to myself:

    1. Move my body.

    I walked into this new apartment at 237.9 pounds. I’m now 224.4. Maybe part of that is because my fridge looks like the “before” shot in a Food Network makeover, but I’m not starving anytime soon…I’ve got enough tits and belly in storage to survive winter. I’ve been walking a mile+ with Remi in the evening before we loop around to our little dog group at the dog park at night. And the yoga studio has been really nice for stretching and working on getting back to doing a full split and my handstand. Long way to go but it’s been a distraction. The progress videos will be hopefully great or bare-minimum hilarious on my new IG profile.

    2. Therapy—for me.

    Not for us. Not for the “we” I’ve been white-knuckling to keep alive. You couldn’t even commit to the homework from the couples therapist I suggested two days ago…that’s my answer. I’m finding someone who works just for me. That old crotchety woman is gone.

    3. Routine and roots.

    Mopping floors, organizing shelves, sitting on the balcony with Remi in the evening and doing more stretches and breathing because FUCK this shoulder and neck pain from stress. And dammit…meeting new people and not pushing away the ones who’ve already shown me kindness. I need to be open and even if I have to fake and force a little bit of openness and say “YES” to outings and just put myself out there….I’m going to …no…I NEED TO embrace that kindness. Be honest. Because that’s how you build something that lasts.

    You were not the man…before the assault, before the lies, before the yelling and making me feel small from the very beginning…where I remember your anger and pushy bullying behavior would make me feel scared and unsure…but I was secure enough to hang up the phone because I lived at my mom’s. You couldn’t reach me. Force me Before my DWi…I used to think you weren’t worthy of me.
    But now…despite my conviction and probation and all the goddamn stains on my record and arm and brain and heart…

    …you know what?

    You’re not worthy of me.

    And hey…two sides to every story right? I never made my ex husband or Michael a monster to public eye and you’re no different. Join their club. So here: I’m not worthy of you.

    If you’re wondering why you’re in this predicament—why you don’t have meaningful references, why doors keep closing—it’s because you’ve coasted, cut corners, and taken advantage. You act like you’re owed a title, owed respect, with no degree, no real credentials, and not a single reputable person above you who would actually vouch for you.

    It was a glitch in the matrix when you landed that BBB job, and instead of building on it, you slid right off like it was nothing.

    You have so much fucking potential. But the problem is, you lack the patience, the understanding, the wherewithal to wait it out, kiss a couple asses, and actually make real, meaningful connections with people. I remember first meeting you, thinking, wow, ummm, there is no way this dude can just fuck off to Hollywood Feed or the gym and not actually work. But you did. And it caught up to you.

    The first red flag…my heart and head both said “whoa…not good”….was when your supervisor was on your ass. Then you suddenly needed to jot down every task, every conversation, record the recruits, the outcomes, and every little thing you did. That wasn’t “being organized.” That was them keeping tabs because they knew you were fucking off. You took advantage. And then you told me you were fired. Not to make a point or anything…but I stayed.

    You can’t just take a seat of power right off the bat, slap on the “fake it ’til you make it” smile on, and given this, your tone is good at face value….but ultimately it always seems like you looked for places to lounge and relax and find comfort, and expect no one to notice when the results aren’t fucking there. 

    If you’re curious why you are in this predicament and haven’t made meaningful references because you’ve slacked and slid your way off and taken advantage…felt you’re owed a fucking title or respect with no piece of paper and no reputable human being above you to vouch for you…then you’re fucking blind. The follow words and comments are exactly how you’d speak to me:

    Stop pretending, cutting corners, expecting people to just SEE or TAKE AT FACE VALUE ON A RESUME your value and fucking work and prove it.

    I was hidden and told your life and world was not out in social media or told to family for all the bullshit a, b, c, d, e, f , g reasons you gave weeks into the relationship. I should have known better.

    Maybe I should’ve never gotten in your truck. Maybe I should’ve kept it what it was supposed to be…just a fuck buddy situation. No expectations. No “good mornings.” No pretending we’d build a life together.

    And yet, here I am, years later, gutted and exhausted from where a meeting at a park…a meeting you didn’t even seem that interested in to begin with..somehow brought you to ask me in your damn truck. How the fuck….how the hell did it lead to this?

    How dumb. How naïve. How me. I keep thinking I’ll learn, that I’ll stop mistaking scraps for a feast… but apparently, I’m the girl who builds castles out of sand and then stands there crying when the tide comes in. Weird thing is, and this makes me tear up a little more now realizing what I just wrote and what I was aiming to write…

    …I don’t cry.

    I build castles. Or buckets or dribbletowers or whatever on the beach. But if the tide takes it…the tide fucking takes it. Just like you, O. Universe takes you. Universe takes you.

    So, I’ll find myself again, come hell or high water. And that starts with disappearing. I’ve done it before. I’ll do it again. This time, I won’t come back.

  • Last Time I Look Back

    I asked him one last time.

    Not to fight.

    Not to trap him.

    Not to win.

    Just to feel safe.

    Because I’d done something stupid. Reached out to one of his exes.

    I expected coldness. Maybe some passive-aggressive silence.

    Instead, she gave me kindness. And truth.

    And the second you hear truth from someone who doesn’t owe shit to you, it gets a lot harder to keep lying to yourself.

    So I asked him…

    “Are you still talking to her?”

    He could’ve made it simple.

    No riddles. No gaps.

    Just one honest breath.

    But he didn’t.

    So I blocked him.

    Not to punish.

    Not to wound.

    Just because I’m done gasping for air in a house he keeps setting on fire and still wonder why I’m choking.

    I am tired.

    Not nap-tired.

    Bone-tired.

    Soul-tired.

    Tired in a way that turns joy into a distant language.

    Tired in a way that makes food feel like work and silence feel like a siren.

    But still…I try.

    So today I went to the pool again. Alone. Again.

    I didn’t plan to stay long.

    I thought maybe if I sat still long enough, the sun might bleach the ache out of me.

    That’s when she appeared.

    Tiny. Wild-haired. Floaties up to her ears.

    Came crashing into the water with a splash and a shout:

    “WATCH THIS! I’M GONNA DO A TRICK!”

    She immediately face-planted.

    Nobody looked. Not her mom. Not her dad. No one.

    But I did.

    Because I know what it feels like to be unseen.

    She spotted me.

    Swam over like a storm in a tutu and said, “Hey! What’s your name?”

    I told her.

    She told me hers.

    “Cielo.”

    I blinked. “That’s your name?”

    She nodded, all teeth and chunky brown cheeks. Maybe five years old.

    “Yep. heaven. My ‘buela named me. I almost died in my mommy’s belly.”

    I almost laughed. The actual fuck?!

    Of course she did.

    Of all the names in the world.

    Cielo.

    Even my rusty Spanish could translate that one.

    I smiled and muttered, half to myself, “These new-age Mexicans are really out here naming their kids full-on poetry, Jesus.”

    She asked about the pink noodle that kept floating toward me. I told her it wasn’t mine, but she could have it.

    She stared at it, narrowed her eyes, and said, “It keeps coming back?”

    I laughed. Actually laughed.

    Then I showed her how to spray water through it like a fountain.

    We both got soaked.

    She ran off after that.

    I leaned back, thinking that was it.

    But a few minutes later, she reappeared…dripping wet, determined…yanked out one of my headphones startling me and said, “Wanna play catch?”

    She held up a neon Nerf ball like it was an offering.

    I wanted to say no.

    But she looked at me like I mattered.

    So I said yes.

    And for ten minutes, I forgot I was tired.

    Forgot I was heartbroken.

    Forgot everything but the sheer ridiculous joy of being picked…just once.

    She made fart noises when she threw it. Her bright little white teeth were so cute biting into her bottom lip. It made me think of Charly.

    Accused me of trying to kill her when it hit her floatie.

    I haven’t laughed like that in weeks.

    Maybe she won’t remember me.

    But I’ll remember her.

    Because maybe we weren’t so different.

    Two girls trying to be seen.

    To be chosen.

    To be kept.

    And of all the names she could’ve had…

    Cielo.

    Heaven.

    Light.

    Like the universe couldn’t send a letter, so it sent her.

    Hours later, I found myself back at someone else’s kitchen island.

    Someone new.

    Not new like butterflies or danger.

    New like quiet.

    Like still water that doesn’t ask you to swim or sink…just to sit a while.

    I’ve kept my feelings guarded around him.

    Not because he’s unkind.

    But because that’s what women do when they’ve been hurt…wrap the soft parts in armor.

    But last night… he noticed.

    Noticed that something about me had changed.

    He asked, gently.

    Pressed a little.

    Not in a way that felt invasive, or like he was angling for sex or sympathy.

    Just… real. Soft. Curious.

    Like maybe he’s hiding his own bruises, too.

    And I didn’t push.

    Neither did he.

    The space between us felt weirdly safe.

    When I finally said I wanted to head back to my apartment, he stood without hesitation and walked me there.

    No jokes. No suggestion to stay.

    Just a quiet walk under a too-dark sky.

    And when we got to my door, he gave me a hug.

    Not the kind laced with expectation.

    Not the kind that tries to slip a kiss in, or comes with a hard press of hips.

    Just a hug.

    Warm. Still.

    Like an apology from a stranger who somehow knows your whole story.

    Or maybe his spirit did.

    Earlier that night, we sat across from each other, eating pizza at his island.

    Remi, ever the gentleman, didn’t beg…just sat with the dignity of someone raised right.

    But his golden retriever puppy…this floppy, golden goofball named Sage…was not so refined.

    She tried to climb into his lap.

    Failed.

    Then turned her attention to me and gently placed her paw on my foot like a mob boss asking for a favor.

    Remi gave her a side-eye, like, we don’t do that in this house,

    and I swear to God, she sighed, shuffled back to her bed, and kicked her little back leg like Peanut used to in protest.

    He said, “She gets it from her mom,” then winked at me.

    I said, “Don’t insult her like that.”

    It was nothing.

    But it was everything.

    Because I’ve spent years starving.

    Driving miles for affection.

    Skipping meals. Swallowing apologies I never got.

    Telling myself I was full when I was running on fumes.

    But tonight, I’m not starving.

    Someone else made dinner.

    Someone sat across from me like I wasn’t a burden.

    Someone walked me home without expecting anything in return.

    And a dog named Sage sighed dramatically when she didn’t get a bite of my jalapeño pineapple pizza.

    And if the man I used to love ever wonders….

    if he wonders whether I still ache for him,

    whether I dream of him,

    whether I’d trade this quiet for one more night in his arms…

    Let him.

    I met a little girl named Cielo today.

    And I remembered what heaven felt like.

    I’m not starving anymore.

    And someone else is making dinner.

  • The Pattern Is the Answer

    I don’t think I feel truly chosen.

    And I hate admitting that. Because it’s not some huge blowout or betrayal this time. It’s the little things. Quiet comments. Subtle shifts. Things I might’ve brushed off a few months ago, but now… they echo.

    We were talking about my new apartment…the one I just got approved for. I mentioned I signed a one-year lease. We’ve both talked about how this space was supposed to be temporary. A breath. A reset. And when I said that, his response was, “That’s not bad. In a year, you can move to a bigger, nicer place.”

    I know those words don’t sound like a punch, but they landed like one. Because to me, I thought a year from now we’d be working toward something together again. One and two. Not one here and one there and just… new leases, new places, new futures separately. I didn’t hear we. I heard you.

    Same thing when we were watching that show, and I jokingly said I’d be the naked woman watering plants in 50 years. And he said, “No, you’ll have a caretaker.”

    I stayed quiet, but it stung. Because if the roles were reversed, I know what I’d have said.

    Something like: “Well, I’ll be there to make sure you don’t drown the cactus, pants or no pants.”

    It’s small. But it’s not.

    He says I overthink.

    But “you’re overthinking” without reassurance is just a pretty way to say “shut fuck up.”

    And then there was Friday.

    We argued. Again.

    I stayed calm. He got loud. Blocked the door. Told me, “If that’s how you feel, then leave.”

    So I did. I started packing quietly, no drama.

    And only then did I hear it: “I love you so much.”

    “You’re the only good in my life.”

    Suddenly, there were tears. Gentle hands.

    Suddenly, I mattered again.

    And that’s when it hit me:

    I don’t want to be loved in the apology.

    I want to be loved in the everyday.

    Because when I write him notes, when I doodle little things and draw stupid shit and try to make him smile…when I show him what an “everything shower” is or offer to rub his back after a long day…it’s not because I fucked up. It’s not some performance of guilt or desperation. I do those things because I love him.

    I don’t want flowers after a fight.

    I want presence when things are peaceful.

    I want him to open the truck door for me not because I cried last night, but because he wants to.

    I want him to walk beside me, not in front me when I’m pulling away or he thinks he’s got me reeled in again.

    I want the handholding, the looking over at me like I’m the only person on the damn planet…even when I’m just eating fries and wearing no makeup.

    I want it to feel like I’m in someone’s future. Not just in their guilt.

    Maybe the conclusion I’m coming to is this:

    I’ve been fighting so hard to stay in something that I haven’t felt truly safe in for a long time.

    And maybe what scares me most is that I’m starting to fall out of love.

    Not in an angry, I-hate-you kind of way.

    But in that soft, slow, terrifying way where I realize I might finally be letting go…not for his peace, but for mine.

    Because deep down, I know I’ll never be the woman he wants to proudly show off to his family.

    I’ll never be the girl his friends root for, or the one he’s eager to post a picture with, to tell the world, “this is her.”

    My original plan was get healthy again, get skinny and pretty again, show I don’t need him and be on my own and do my own thing and THEN I’d be good enough for those things.

    But it hit me yesterday in the pool that it will never be good enough. Like the stupid saying goes, “if you can’t love me at my worst, you don’t deserve my best.” And granted, he has definitely seen my worse and stuck around…but it was never fully in. I was never fully loved. I was loved in the shadows, kept as a secret, even from his little secret I was a secret. So I don’t even know if I should give him that grace. Because I didn’t just love him within those four walls, I was proud to bring him around my family, would have loved him to meet my new friends, loved to take photos and post more for my social media.

    And it’s not bitterness saying that—it’s acceptance.

    These last three weeks here, in this new space, sleeping next to him, waking up beside him…

    they didn’t erase that thought. They cemented it.

    And as much as that should hurt, there’s something morbidly peaceful about it.

    Like I’ve stopped waiting for a place I was never going to be invited into.

    And I’m terrified that the “new beginning” he talks about…

    was only meant for him.

    So no, my best self that I want so badly still won’t be good enough. And that’s ok. It will be for someone one day.

  • They Know…

    It hit me this morning…the email I’ve been waiting on, praying for. The one that said I got approved. The one that should’ve made me jump up, scream, throw a fist in the air, call everyone I love and say, “I did it. I have a place. My place.”

    But I didn’t. I just stood there in this fake, new bathroom light on the toilet in a place that isn’t HOME anymore, I’m just… there…phone in my lap, dogs at my feet, and this strange ache crawling down my spine like something had been extracted…ripped out of me in the final step of becoming…separate.

    This isn’t home anymore. Fuck. Not really. Not ours. Not mine and Owen’s. It’s just the place where I sleep now, where Remi curls against my neck like he’s guarding something only he can see, and where Peanut won’t stop pacing unless she’s pressed to one or both of our bodies… pressed to my thigh, like she’s holding me together with her tiny stubborn body and a bladder she still hasn’t mastered.

    They know. They always knew.

    Even when I didn’t.

    There were signs, of course. The phone flipped over on the nightstand. The drop-offs. The “late nights.” The sudden sweetness from a man who once hated words like “cuddle” and “lay with me.” He’d wrap his arms around me in the kitchen and kiss the back of my neck and I’d pretend it wasn’t strange…pretend it was progress. But part of me flinched. Part of me knew.

    And then came the unraveling.

    The arrest. The job loss. The fighting. The desperate trying. The cheating.

    The miscarriage.

    Yes, that too.

    While I smiled through patient calls and paperwork, while I trained in a brand-new job like my world wasn’t quietly falling apart beneath the desk this brand new counter and desk…I was bleeding. Losing. Holding my stomach in the bathroom and telling myself to keep going. That if I just made it to 5 o’clock, I could cry in the car. And I did. So many times. Parked PURPOSELY away so nobody would see me just scream and breathe and cry and let it out.

    But nothing prepared me for Hemi.

    She died four days into that job. On my side of the bed.

    I’d left that morning with her gasping…foaming at the mouth, her eyes locked on mine like she knew. And I didn’t call Owen. I couldn’t. I knew he’d panic. I knew I’d break. I left her there, and maybe that’s something I’ll always carry…it fucking BREAKS ME to this day. Maybe part of me died too the moment I walked out that door.

    But she chose her place. That was her daddy. And I had no right to intervene as much as I begged and tried to talk gently about it to him. But I should’ve tried harder. I should’ve pushed. The money to put her down and let her sleep was ok. But his anger just scared me and he was so attached to her. But I should’ve tried harder ….have spoken up.

    She chose the floor beside my nightstand. Not his. Not the front door or the kitchen or the crate.

    Right next to Remi.

    They were never close. He’s all wiggles and caution and she was this quiet old soul with stormcloud eyes, beautiful old stormy eyes….and a tired spine and a sick throat and lungs that tried to make up for it. But that morning, something passed between them. Something unspoken. I think she knew he’d hold vigil. I think she knew he’d stay with her until someone came home. That breaks my heart for not only Hemi but Remi…because if Temi could have been out of his crate he would have comforted her. I know that sweet boy.

    She didn’t go to Peanut. Peanut would’ve whined and fussed and been scared and loud. But Remi? Remi understood.

    Now here I am. A woman with a key to a new address. A woman who asked for space. Who drew the line. Who still lays on the couch some nights and wonders if it was all a fever dream…the love, the loss, the trauma, the high, the crash.

    And Remi won’t leave my chest.

    Peanut won’t let me out of her sight.

    They know I’m scared.

    They know this isn’t the kind of freedom I imagined.

    They know I miss Owen. Even after everything.

    They know I’m tired of being the strong one, the forgiving one, the one who always tries. Not to say he doesn’t. But I have no reason to at this point ya know?

    They know what I gave up to get here.

    They know I wanted to come home today. Home. Need to stop using that word. This isn’t home.

    But instead, I came to this.

    A new space. An unfamiliar air. A silent apology to Hemi.

    And maybe…just maybe…a chance to find peace.

    But not before I cry into a dog’s fur.

    Not before I say her name.

    Not before I remind myself that even when the humans fail me…

    They still know.

  • Should’ve Never Bought It

    I should’ve never bought it.

    That cheap little GPS tracker.

    I sat in OUR bed, laying till I hear him snore…fucking debating it. My heart pounding like I was about to rob a damn place. I told myself I wasn’t crazy, I was just tired. Tired of the lies, the disappearing acts, the “drop-offs” and “meeting clients” excuses. I told myself it was protection…proof…not desperation. Because nobody would EVER believe me otherwise.

    And yet, when I pulled into the parking lot at work the next morning, it felt like the thing was burning a hole in my purse.

    I told Abby first.

    She tilted her head and gave me the look. You know the one. Eyebrows lifted, mouth half open in disbelief.

    “You didn’t.”

    “I did,” I muttered, half-laughing like maybe if I said it fast enough it would sound funny.

    Then came Brittany. Her hands on her hips, one eyebrow arched so high it practically left the room.

    “That’s some ‘Snapped’ type shit,” she said. “But I support it.”

    Even the X-ray tech chimed in between patients.

    “What would would make you think to even do that?”

    I shrugged, biting my lip, still clutching my phone like it held the answer.

    And here’s the kicker…I defended him. I FUCKING DEFENDED HIM.

    Still. After everything.

    I told them I was just being dumb. That I was spiraling. That he hadn’t actually done anything wrong. That the phone being flipped over didn’t mean a damn thing. The weird behaviors, late nights. Nothing.

    That maybe I just needed sleep. Said it was nothing. Absolutely nothing. Had full faith and clung on to it like a fucking hook gouging my eyelid out but dammit I’d hang on.

    ….

    But that wasn’t the truth. Was it?

    The truth was, I already knew.

    I just didn’t want to know. Not the details but that fucked up feeling in my stomach. How many more bullshit affairs have I missed? God this is so SHIT

    Less than twenty-four hours later, I found out anyway.

    The tracker pinged a neighborhood I didn’t recognize. I zoomed in, heart pounding, trying to convince myself he was helping a friend, picking something up, grabbing food. I told myself anything but what my gut had been screaming for weeks.

    And then the phone rang.

    His name lit up my screen, and I answered like a fool.

    “Hey,” he said, voice slow. Heavy.

    Like the lie was sitting in his mouth and he couldn’t swallow it fast enough.

    He didn’t confess.

    Not really.

    Just admitted it. Like a man caught with the evidence already on the table.

    “I was there,” he said. “I did what I did.”

    That was it.

    And just like that, the floor dropped.

    Now he’s out of jail.

    Sleeping at her fucking house.

    The same house the tracker led me to.

    The same house he tried to pretend didn’t exist.

    And me? I’m here. Sitting in a room that used to feel safe.

    Wondering what the fuck I’m supposed to do.

    How I’m supposed to eat, sleep, breathe, parent—with this firestorm in my chest and nothing but ashes where my trust used to be.

    Everyone wants to know what I’ll do next.

    I don’t even know what I feel.

    Anger? Of course.

    Grief? Like hell.

    Shame? More than I’ll ever admit out loud.

    But mostly, I just feel lost.

    Because I loved him.

    Because I wanted to believe.

    Because I bought a tracker and still hoped I was wrong.

  • Lost

    I haven’t been honest.

    Not with myself. Not with the people who love me. And certainly not with the version of me that still believes everything is going to be okay.

    Because right now?

    It’s not.

    I am struggling.

    I am drowning in bills, in emotions, in shame I can’t even fully name.

    I’ve had nights where I’ve poured one too many glasses just to take the edge off and mornings where I’ve hated myself for it. I’ve whispered promises to get help—to finally find a therapist, to try—but then I look at my bank account, look at my daughter, and think, I don’t have the right to break down. Not today.

    Because Charly needs me.

    She needs food on the table and rides to where she needs to be and a mom who smiles and says everything is fine.

    So I’ve become a woman who lies in her own mirror.

    One who says she’s okay when she’s anything but.

    One who holds space for others, but doesn’t know how to ask for a sliver of it herself.

    I’m still grieving.

    God, I hate admitting that.

    I was bleeding while holding a job I just started. I was smiling at patients, faking focus, answering phones like my body wasn’t unraveling quietly beneath my clothes. And no one knew.

    Because I didn’t let them.

    That kind of pain… it doesn’t leave. It lingers. It haunts.

    And it finds new ways to hurt you on the quiet days when you think you’ve made it through.

    And then there’s Owen.

    I haven’t been good to him. I can say that now.

    I’ve been cruel. Defensive. Sharp with my tongue and guarded with my love.

    I’ve pushed him away, accused, assumed, and spiraled.

    I’ve betrayed the trust I so desperately wanted from him.

    And part of me wants to punish myself for that.

    To scream, “He deserves better!”

    Because maybe he does.

    Maybe it’s only a matter of time before he finds it.

    Finds someone who isn’t broken or bitter or scared.

    Finds someone who doesn’t check his phone like it’s a bomb about to go off.

    Someone who lets him be the soft man I know he is when the world isn’t watching.

    But then I think about Charly.

    And how she looks at him like he hung the stars.

    How she trusts him in a way she’s never trusted many people.

    How she feels safe around him. Like really, deeply safe.

    And I ache.

    Because I want that for her.

    Even if it’s not with me. Even if I don’t get to keep the pieces of him I once held.

    Even if I’m the reason it all fell apart.

    I don’t know what to do.

    I want to be better. I really do.

    But I’m tired. I’m scared. I’m overwhelmed.

    And if you’ve ever been here—where the pain is louder than the plans, and the guilt is louder than the love—

    Then maybe you know, too.

    This isn’t a plea.

    It’s not even a confession.

    It’s just a whisper into the dark, hoping that maybe I’m not the only one still trying to crawl out of it.