If one word describes you, what is it? Have you picked specialities? Are you weighing your options? Are you asking advice from department heads, peers, street people who can make snap judgements your mother can’t make?

You’d like to think you’re complex, that you’re part of a story bigger than you, and every walk-out, break-up, row over babies or dinner was a chapter, segment or sentence, that made the decision for you. And you don’t know if Gemma made it, if Emma did, if you’d feel like this if he was single.

You said leave and he did and it didn’t make you happy like you thought and if you don’t know what’s best for you maybe you shouldn’t be healing people, maybe you should stop. And you wish he would stop he would stop he would stop but he’s your cereal, milk, water, dinner, drinks, shots, clothes. He’s the cops knocking at 4 and your friend ringing at 9 and the pizza delivery guy and the postman and the cashier at the store and the person pulling shoe sizes out of storerooms for you. He’s who you pray to, plead, every wish you make on candles, eyelashes, cookies, lights and lotteries. And he’s nothing, not yours, not in your bed, not close.


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