Instead, I set it down. Gently. Like it’s made of glass and secrets.
Because it’s not just like her, it’s like me. It’s us.
There shouldn’t be an us.
I fish through the rest of the bag.
Trinkets. Ribbons. Food. A card. Something that smells like her tits probably brushed against it. There’s a tiny bottle of glitter inside. Why? Who the fuck knows.
Delilah logic.
This wasn’t a prank. It was a fucking declaration.
I yank the card out and the fucking cover stops me cold.
A teddy bear, gutted. Threadbare. Split wide open with its little plush intestines hanging out and one sad-ass hand-stitchedpatch over the heart like that’s enough to make it okay. She’s saying sorry with a goddamn bloodied Build-A-Bear.
“We came apart a little, but I still want your stuffing.”
What the fuck does that mean?
I don’t breathe as I flip it open.
Inside, she writes: “I told you too much, and I told you too late. I fucked up. But I’m still here. If you open the door again, I’ll be on the floor outside it, covered in shame and French fries.
P.S. The pie regrets everything too.”
I have to sit down.
I don’t. But I have to.
Because I hate her. I love her. I want to shake her. I want to feed her fries while she cries and then rail her into drywall until neither of us remembers what the fuck we were even fighting about.
She meant this. It’s not subtle. She never is.
And the worst part is, it worked.
It fucking worked.
I hate that I want to drag her in by the thighs, slam her into the door, growl mine, and fuck her until she breaks.
I hate that I know she’d fucking love it.
And somewhere out there, she’s wearing my shirt and probably driving barefoot like a menace, singing something deranged, thinking this was a cute idea.
Delilah isn’t a woman.
She’s a goddamn tornado that giggles as it steals your pants and your sanity and makes you thank her for it.
And I’m in love with her.
Fucking Christ.
Journal Entry #7
Wednesday August 4th
Therapy Journal
