In the buttery, iron taste of the aftermath, food will not fill me. A pill will not clear me of this, and sleep does not always lend itself to rest. The frothing surface of lingering promises shields the unknown sediment, sinking below. Every lie we tell ourselves haunts me, ripping apart my heart.
How frequently and how tragically does the wounded feminine whore herself for the wounded masculine, giving over entirely to the illusion of acceptance, comfort, and consistency from the patriarchy.