Sometimes it’s dangerous to peek in doors.
It’s easy to imagine every coupling as a cozy duo. Making the coffee and enjoying a lazy Sunday for two. The sex better every time. A Valentine card. Choo-choo-choose me.
Wish I could wear a bikini top, scattered freckles soaking up the sun and Vitamin D without layers of regularly reapplied SPF. Never have (well, tried once). I envy her in tank tops.
How much more money does he make, what's the price tag on his creativity? The wife stays home with the kids; glimpses of the house and yard in happy online photos show a life so cozy, so Crate and Barrel. So worth more.
Fierce independence aside, I want to be a girl he'd sit on the couch and listen to music with. There’s a fine line between saucy and salacious, one I straddle often and usually sans panties. Want the love reward too.
He tells tales of self-loathing and doubt and desire and it reads like poetry. There's no worry they'll think him any less worthwhile once the dark passes. And they won't.
I want to be like oxygen, the room a little dizzier and alive when I enter. It’s who I think I am. It's who I want you to think I am.
"'Cause every now and then I kick the living shit out of me."