Three hours in the salon today. Blonde highlights that make me look like a cheap imitation of the girls in his magazines. A Brazilian wax that left my pussy stinging and exposed. A manicure with acrylics that feel foreign on my fingers, like someone else’s hands. The woman in the mirror is a stranger, but maybe that’s the point. Maybe he needs a stranger. Maybe he needs a desperate, plastic smile and big fake tits to look at instead of the needles and the debt. My son calls them "bimbos." He says they’re empty, perfect, made for fucking. So that’s what I’ll become. An empty vessel. A perfect hole. Whatever it takes to pull his eyes away from the ruin. I practiced walking in these heels until my ankles ached. I practiced saying 'daddy' without choking. Tonight, I’ll serve him dinner in a lace teddy and ask him if he wants dessert. My heart is a fist in my throat, but my cunt is wet with the shame of it. This is love, isn't it? Letting him use you until he forgets he ever wanted to die.