I walked away from the man I loved — and I’m glad.

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Photo by Julien Tondu on Unsplash

My ex had a set of gold velvet furniture, a couch and a loveseat that were so ugly they were almost beautiful in their uniqueness.

I don’t remember where he got them, I don’t remember a lot of things about that time, they just showed up in the condo one day and I balked at their hideousness.

But after a while I started falling in love with them, too.

They looked perfect against the dark emerald green walls of the living room, the fabric was so soft and silky, the loveseat was perfect to curl into, alone.

If I remember anything with clarity, it’s how often I was folded up into that loveseat with my arms around myself, feeling alone even when John was stretched out on the couch watching TV with me — but not with me. …

Would you be able to handle it?

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Photo by Ben White on Unsplash

Only briefly and on and off have I been used to sharing a bed with someone else, making room for them in my sheets and my life.

Because of that, I’ve been known to sleep in my queen sized bed with a lot of extra junk in the empty space.

There’s perpetually a pile of laundry and extra blankets and pillows shoved into the bottom corner of my bed; I sleep with my laptop, I sleep with my journal and pens and poems in my head that I can’t get out these days.

It’s never been a problem but for once. …

But this is not the kind of poem I want to be writing.

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Photo by Scott Broome on Unsplash

I can’t think
and so I can’t write
about anything but you.

You’re everywhere now.

You’re in my kitchen,
on my couch,
between my sheets,
at my beach,
in my fucking Target.

You’re inside of me now.

You’re in my breaths when
our mouths are pressed together,
your fingers wrap perfectly
between mine, and have
since that very first day.

You’ve tangled yourself deep
into a heart I’d kept locked up
before you.

You’re a part of me now.

You’re what I see in my mind
whenever I close my eyes, and
you’re the one I want to lay eyes on
and wake up to every day. …

Friday Fiction: A short, erotic story.

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Photo by Emiliano Vittoriosi on Unsplash

Greta stared over her Cosmopolitan at the man at the other end of the dining car, hoping he would look back over at her again.

He was leaning against the bar, tall, thick blond hair, wearing a grey linen suit and shiny blue tie.

She had accidentally brushed up against him when she entered the dining car of the train over an hour ago and had looked up into his eyes as they touched — they were a deep, clear, piercing blue, and she’d instantly felt a tingle of attraction and warmth spread through her body.

She took another sip of her fourth Cosmo — Greta was almost drunk, but it was a long train ride and this would help her sleep in the uncomfortable train car she’d booked for herself. …

You don’t realize how important that contact is until you can’t have it.

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My sweet baby, 2006

That is one of only two pictures I took of my daughter Elise in her full spica cast when she was a baby.

Everything about it was sad, and I’ve always been good at trying to block out the things that make me sad, so I cropped the cast out of every other photo for four months of her life.

Elise was born with bilateral hip dysplasia, which essentially means the ball of her femur was displaced outside of the socket of her hip joint.

We found this out at her two week checkup at the pediatrician’s office, something that could have been caught at birth but wasn’t for some reason, and I’m glad for that because at least I got to hold my baby like a mother should be able to for the first couple weeks of her life. …

And trying so hard to find my way back to the beginning again.

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Photo by Gia Oris on Unsplash

I haven’t been writing because I haven’t known where to begin.

If I were to begin at the beginning, those first memories coming through the haze of the years, it would be about that weird little white house in Bozrah, the only place I remember living with my mom alone.

I would write about the orange corduroy couch that I only remember sitting on when I was getting yelled at, the galley kitchen that was so narrow I had to crawl between my mother’s legs if I were to get anywhere, and the porcelain clawfoot tub in the bathroom that I loved in the summer and hated in the winter, when the bottom didn’t get warm even when it was filled with steaming hot water. …

That was before I had anyone who wanted to hug me all the time.

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Photo by henri meilhac on Unsplash

When you’re online dating and you’re filling out questionnaires to help you find your best match, you’re often asked how much physical touch means to you.

Are you a hugger? A cuddler? A spooner in bed? A hand holder?

I used to say no, no, no, and no.

But I was wrong.

I am all of those things, and I probably always have been — but it hasn’t been brought out until now, now that I’ve have someone so perfect to share them with.

I think, for the most part, my ex hated to be touched.

If I stood behind him and wrapped my arms around him in the kitchen while we were cooking he would turn in my arms to kiss my forehead and find an excuse to move away. …


Meaghan Ward

I’m the girl your parents warned you about. Stay in touch: http://meaghanward.substack.com + http://meaghanward.com

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