Another day, another slight. Another disappointment to breathe in and scrub out. Another apology that isn't.
Denial or blame wins over resolution. I'm still second place, a convenient roommate for a man married to his mother. The psychotherapist tells him these truths, but does he hear?
I wait and wait and wait and wait for my husband to be a husband, hopeful every morning, sad every night.
Dear universe, dear Papa, dear time: Please let him grow. I ask for so little, and I want only this. I'd be a better girl, if only I had a prompt. I'd do anything for the child I married, and in return I dare you universe, to give me the man he was meant to be, so that I can trade my armor for a gown.
9:00 p.m. - 2009-09-23