Bad. My husband says I am bad. Not in the sense of evil-bad, but more a case of growing increasingly disobedient, difficult and intractable with age. He hurls the hateful syllables at me, small shit-balls, grown dry and tight and hard in the bowels of his fury. His words,  like butcher’s knives, have scraped my spirits to ragged bone. Our private life is a public lie.  My soul feels wrinkled, scabbed over. I feel it’s been picked at by scavenger birds and I despair that I will ever heal. But I somehow survive the slow death of my love, not only intact, but forged stronger from the shock of unrelenting pain. Where shall I start to describe my badness? He says I am unwomanly.…

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