Most mornings, I meet her in the mirror. I carefully brush through her hair, wetting her down, just to see her clearer. We whisper about what is ahead of her; silently lament about what is behind. Gentle with my hands but less with my mind. I know I owe her.

Know I own her. Know that even at my best, there is so much sorrow between us. So many unmeant apologies, unmet necessities, unmatched niceties. So many men I allowed to touch her, to toughen her, to tangle up her tenacity until it was treacherous. I feel I have betrayed her in the most vulnerable of ways. I feel I have run out of happy lies to say.

Most mournings, I meet her in the mirror. I tie up her hair, knotting it without care, just to see her clearer. We scream about what is ahead of her; daydream about what is behind. Brutal with my hands and more with my thighs. I know I owe her.