I’m 38.

At this age, one should have a career, perhaps a family, a husband, some savings.

I have managed an office job, some plants, a beautiful husband, and a dwindling savings account.

I think about death too much. My face resembles overgrown jungles and my body, a volcano. Bubbling, erupting, dormant. 

I wasn’t made right. 

There are bits of me that need a fresh coat of paint. 

Yellowstone has been active and the geological layers are weakening. This eruption is overdue and honestly I’m ready. I’ve found the love of a lifetime and everything else, even my writing career, seems frivolous. The temperature would plummet and we, as Californians, would die. 

We are not equipped for cold. 

I am however, used to it. Mostly from my mother and my father. They are experts at being cold. They’re good people, if good means making sure I had food and a roof. But cold cold, like a harsh Chicago winter that my husband often describes, I wouldn’t know about those kinds of winters because I am ignorant to real cold. I just know the coldness of home. 

I am not alone.

It’s a shame really.

That they didn’t get to know me.

I’m fun.

Funny.

A good conversationalist.

Witty.

Passionate.

Engaging.

They missed out on me.

That’s what I keep telling myself.

It’s the only way I can deal. How does one deal with neglect? With the lack of motherly love?

I must sound like a baby that never got breast fed. 

I’m everything but. 

I indulged on the tit. 

Sucked on it, till it deflated. 

Tried to be a good daughter, always.

Failed.

Never good enough. 

Never.

So my adequacies are just, at least in my mind.

I keep moving on.

Always moving.

Always slow.

Always steady.

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