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She kisses me on the forehead
but I barely feel it.
We’ll give you some time,
Mama Alice says, rising.
Come join us for dinner
when you’re ready.
We can talk more then
if you like.
Sitting down
at our cheerily decorated table
with moms who have fallen
out of love
is the last thing I want to do.
I’m glued in place at my desk
all the narratives I’ve held up
as absolute truth
spilled out onto the floor
a mess of fiction.
So, I lean into the only thing I know
that always helps.
I blast “Winter Song”
on repeat
as I flop onto my bed
like the dramatic
sulky teen I’ll have to
leave behind soon.
Why on earth did I think
venturing off on my own
being in love
adulting
