Just got home from my weekly volunteer shift at the women's shelter. The director asked me why I started coming, and I almost told her the truth—that I'm trying to scrub the cruelty out of my soul with every dish I wash, every bed I make. I didn't. I just said I wanted to help. But the whole time, my wedding band felt heavy on my finger, a constant reminder of the man who showed me what real grace looks like. Later, I'll kneel by our bed and beg him to fuck the last remnants of that spiteful cheerleader out of me. I want him to use my pussy until I'm sobbing his name, until the only thing I remember is how to worship him. Some wounds don't heal with time. They heal with devotion. ♡