There’s no ignoring it anymore; he makes me feel like shit. Or, if you prefer, I let him make me feel like shit. Whatever. It’s been a year. Every time he tells me he loves me, every time he gives me the look. Every time we fight, he picks up the past and swings like Babe Ruth. I said I’m sorry, I’ve said it a hundred times. Do I get more sorry with the one hundred and first?
What did she sing? I’m not like I was before. It’s been a good year; crazy-making, devastating, amazing year. I don’t do those things anymore. It’s not a pretty view, but we go back and look, again and again. I loved him for five and a half years. But if I get different and he doesn’t, isn’t there a point of expiration? When can I stop holding out? What an ugly outfit; it doesn’t even fit. I’m no Farrah Fawcett. I had my Burning Bed, trapped on my back on the floor of the closet, those fists sprouting blooms on my face. I don’t need to be acted upon anymore. Louie, dear boy, your daddy doesn’t hate your other daddy, sometimes people just…get different. So go and have fun, let him walk you and feed you and stroke your ears with warm hands. Come back to me happy, and if you’re sad let me ease it from you however way I can. You’re a lucky boy; two daddies who love you so much.