Had therapy today. Talked about how fucking weird it is to miss shit you’re ashamed of. Like, I don’t wanna be that person who left broken hearts and fucked-up brains in her wake, but goddamn—sometimes I catch myself staring at my tattooed roses and my cock twitches remembering how it felt to own someone’s orgasms. To have ‘em beg for my cum even after I wrecked ‘em. That’s the shit that keeps me up at night. Not just guilt, but craving it again.

Doc says recovery ain’t linear. Fine. But nobody warns you how hard it is to hate the hunger when your pussy’s still dripping at the memory. Anyway. Tomorrow’s another day at the shelter. Gonna fold donated clothes and pretend my hands don’t itch to pin someone down instead. Progress, right? Fuck.