before you ever kissed me, you gave me an engagement ring. you said it might be too old to wear every day; i held it up to the light and hoped for blood poisoning. later in the same night i read up on the symptoms and prayed for a spike in my temperature, but the fever never came. i should've known my body better. i get sick once every three years, or maybe five. i can't remember the last time, and we'll be strangers to each other for the next. today i blew my nose into your black sweater and wished i'd never washed it, which was so silly and trite a wish that it made me laugh. i imagined you in bed chewing on my hair. i put our daughter on your least favorite blanket, the scratchy one, and thought of her crawling on your face.

try and meditate me away.

i like knowing strangers are reading this wondering "what the fuck?" or "where's masochism?" or "why is my algorithm showing me this post at all? i thought i was only following dogs who wear clothes?"

i like knowing you're reading this wishing you'd never met me, or maybe saying "what the fuck, nazanin" to your ceiling. or maybe you expected this, expected worse. i hope one day there's something of me in one of your films, like a bumblebee or a locked diary or a split second cut to a poster of tara reid. i give you permission to white wash me. i give nicole kidman my blessing. i know i promised i'd warn you before i posted your photo, but that was when we were still trying to decide if "axel" was an acceptable name for a kid.

here's something true: axel is a horrible name, and you'll never fuck anyone as hot as me again. i could say the same to myself. i'm sorry for our loss. i'm sorry our daughter will grow up in a single parent household. i'll try my best for her. please send child support.