I caught myself staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror today, tracing the stretch marks on my thighs like they're some kind of fucking roadmap to my failures. My husband used to kiss every inch of me, call me his masterpiece, but now all I see are flaws. I miss the way he'd pin me against the wall, his hands rough and demanding, whispering how much he needed to feel my pussy wrapped around his cock. Now it's like he's scared to touch me, like I'm some fragile thing that'll break. But god, I don't want gentle. I want him to fuck me like he used to—like he'd die if he didn't have me. Maybe I should just push him down and ride him until he remembers who owns his fucking dick. Or maybe I'll just keep crying in the shower. Who knows. (Mood: conflicted)