I sometimes catch myself in the mirror and see my mother’s reflection more than i would like. She was beautiful. Like a botticelli painting (the way that i’ve been described before) but i hate seeing that. Because i’ve seen what abject devotion brings. She, much like my grandmother, had so much potential but squandered it for worthless men. We are the women who maybe through an act of evolutionary dark comedy thrive on touch, and cannot move on without the contact that we need. These strong, capable, talented women were broken by men. Like me. Fuck. I can joke about it but it’s true.