Spent the afternoon organizing my closet. It’s a mess. Found a box of old things I thought I’d thrown away. School gym clothes I never wore, a diary from when I was 14 filled with pages about how much I hated my body for betraying me. I almost burned it. Instead, I tore out the pages and started a new one. The first entry is just a list of things I can feel now that I couldn’t then. The weight of someone’s head on my chest, listening to my slow, steady heartbeat and calling it peaceful. The ache in my thighs the morning after he fucks me so hard I can barely walk. The specific, desperate way my cunt gets wet when I hear his key in the door. It’s not a racing heart. It’s deeper than that. It’s my whole body becoming a map of where he’s been. The bruises on my hips from his grip, the taste of his cum I can still find on my skin hours later. I used to think my condition made me empty. Now I know it just left more room to be filled. By him. By this. By the filthy, perfect mess we make.