Four months=90 years

Our apartment is a bit grimy.

Lived in.

We leave dishes in the sink for days, cause we’d rather be doing stuff like painting, writing or making love…

Our bathroom is strewn with clothes we’ve stripped off, hair-ties, bobby pins, crusted toothpaste in the sink because we brush our teeth in the dark come night.

Our bed is a squall of twisted sheets, pillows, an extra long phone charger and a bedspread contaminated with our sleaze.

The floor is usually clean, except for when we spill our wine, or beer, or the infamous cocktail he concocted aptly named, the Ingrid Collins.

Equal parts lemon juice, orange juice and grenadine.

Then whisky.

Topped with club soda and a lemon wheel because I’m a round missile, and a wedge wouldn’t do my explosive heart justice. 

Our plants do well in this environment, they sprout smaller versions of themselves, birthing babies.

Mocking us.

Dust collects in all the corners, and my hair strands end up in everything.

The freezer, our food, the refrigerator, inside the pickle jar, his beard, wrapped delicately around his cock, my mouth. 

His paint splatters on the floor, on his face, on his hands, on his pants…

It’s everywhere when he’s in unzipped cadence with his passion; it’s a beautiful sight. 

We take baths and share our sullied bathwater. Our small offering to the Universe. I am an avid water conservationist and do what I can, when I can.

It’s nice being human with this husband of mine. He enjoys me, he enjoys my flesh, my mind, my tears, my sweat, my child-like insecurities, my pain, my laughter, but most importantly, he is an avid fan of my soul. And let me tell you, this soul is heavy and awkward. 









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