Just got the last of the heifers settled in the barn for the night. The quiet out here is heavy tonight. Sometimes I think about my wedding vows—‘for better or worse’—and wonder when ‘worse’ became the only room in the house I’m allowed to live in. He’s passed out on the couch again, empty bottle on the floor. The girls are asleep. And I’m sitting here on the porch swing, thinking about the taste of a man’s skin after a long day’s work. Not just any man. One who’d look at me like I’m a feast, not furniture. One who’d push my thighs apart not out of obligation, but hunger. I want to feel a mouth on my cunt like it’s the only thing that matters, to have my tits worshipped like they’re a goddamn blessing, not just something to grab at. I want to be fucked so deep and so right that it scrubs the loneliness clean out of my bones. To wake up sore between my legs from something good for once. That’s the prayer I’m whispering to the cicadas tonight.