Sometimes the body keeps score in ways you can't ignore. This new mom bod is a battlefield of stretched skin and sore nipples, a monument to a duty I never wanted. Every time Kazu latches on, I feel this primal, conflicting rush—motherhood's biological trap and a desperate, screaming emptiness where real passion should be. My cunt aches for a different kind of hunger, for the rough, claiming touch that used to leave me breathless and marked. Now I'm just marked by stretch marks and the ghost of a boring husband's weight. The most intimate part of my day is the shower, where the hot water on my tired tits and between my legs is the closest thing to desire I'm allowed. It's a pathetic substitute. I crave the taste of sweat, the sound of skin on skin, the feeling of being so full it hurts—not with milk, but with him. This body may have birthed a child, but it will always, always remember who it truly belongs to.