He dresses up again trying to fit in with a few people from work. I tried to warn him it wasn’t worth it but when some blonde girl, young, with a tight body, walked by, we forget why we started talking in the first place. I don’t tell him why anymore. I’m too busy figuring out how to write on a daily basis. He wanders off looking tall and handsome. I don’t stop him. When his ego takes him down, he’ll come crawling back with blood everywhere and some new story. It’s cute and the way he looks when he’s balls deep in his writing makes my heart melt. He’s a distraction anyways. I should be focused on writing how my heart beats independently. On how I don’t need a man to complete me. I don’t. I simply crave the kind of love that penetrates my soul. I suppose I could even write something about how I worked really hard to get where I am and how grateful I am to be here. Something to empower women or men for that matter. I don’t know. This writing thing has turned my world upside down in so many ways. So has he, but I haven’t stopped doing either of them. Some people would call what we have chaotic and disgusting. I know what it causes and somewhere in my bloodline one of my ancestors was swallowed whole by chaos. I feel it in me. That craving for something to go wrong. Wrong enough for me to write about it. But not tonight. Tonight I turn the water on as hot as I can make it so that when my feet hit the water it feels cold. I’ll dip my sun drenched body all the way in until my nose is just above the water and watch the oil dance on the surface. Losing myself to me. Falling in love with women I’ve unbecome and closing my eyes to dance with the stars that crave me.