Sara Raasch

It drags—demands—wrenches my focus to those lips.

I’ll keep going. And going. And I’ll learn and do better and sometimes I’ll hate myself for not giving up and I’ll rage at the shit around me but I remember what it’s like to look at the world with uncomplicated hope and I can’t stop until I get that back.

I mute my phone and dig a T-shirt out of my bag, a bright green one that says 100% That Grinch in swirling red script.

I thought the balance to being in a constant state of anxiety was peace; but what if it’s chaos? Not fighting my own chaos or trying to tamp down my emotions, but leaning into it

I open my arms to this simplicity. Maybe everything can be this
simple, too. As simple as accepting it, not overthinking, not worrying, and whatever backlash comes, I can stand strong knowing that I did what I needed, what was true to me.

There is no fantasy, no alternate dimension, no manufactured fictional world where I do not fall for this guy.

I mean, our version of post-sex talk is about the structure of art, for Christ’s sake.