Friday, August 10, 2018

Today's writing


I pop a Klonopin.

“They don’t even work for you,” he says. We’re both still naked, but it feels like such a long time ago since we were having sex. The stitch is fading slowly, leaving remnants of pain like a vapor trail along my torso.

“You heard of a placebo?”

Sixteen years together and I sometimes still can’t tell whether we’re bantering or bickering, or if there’s even a difference. Marriage is a dance of pushing the envelope back and forth between one another. Sometimes I just think we should tear the damn thing to pieces and get it over with.


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