to be sad. or something like it.

“I get sad sometimes.”   I don’t know how else to say it. Depression skips like a record in my mouth. Landing us back in the middle of a phrase now lacking in context. Made into fragment.     He didn’t know what to do with my words. He thought he already knew me. My vulnerability offered

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the ramifications of being ourselves.

I’m currently in possession of a hint of a mohawk. And I freaking love it. It makes me feel like a bad ass. Until it doesn’t. Until I don’t. Until I so badly want to fit into some conception of what everyone else seems to believe is pretty because a man chose someone else. Always seems

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my (new) favorite question to ask a lover.

How has sex changed for you? This is one of my favorite questions to ask a lover. In fact, it’s becoming a pre-rec for getting in my pants. If the answer is “meh. not much.” Oh, we will not be having sex. I remember looking up at the off white of my dorm room ceiling,

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one missed snack away from a panic attack

I’m one missed snack away from a panic attack. I get like this when I’m in between things. In between men. In between endeavors. The notion of just being me. Of that being enough. Is preposterous enough to send me tumbling into a feeling in the pit of my stomach like one too many cups

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I’m one missed snack away from a panic attack.

I’m one missed snack away from a panic attack. I get like this when I’m in between things. In between men. In between endeavors. The notion of just being me. Of that being enough. Is preposterous enough to send me tumbling into a feeling in the pit of my stomach like one too many cups

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when we say what we mean.

I’m trying this weird thing called not thinking every man I date I have to marry. Or that I have to make the exact right choice. It’s an in between step for me. From serial monogamy, to long distance lovers, to not projecting my life on another person. To meeting them where they’re at and

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lessons from a power belly.

I envy the elasticity he has in his body. “I’ve lived on wine for the last 8 weeks. Of course I have a power belly.” Never have those last two words been juxtaposed in regards to my body. I’m naked. Lying in bed above the covers, watching him get dressed. He does have a little

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I wish someone had told me…

I’ve started to have the condom discussion before jumping in bed with someone. Perhaps that seems obvious. It wasn’t. “Condoms. These will be a thing or I will not be a thing.” I’d like to say that I have this conversation before we get in bed because I’m that solid in who I am. But

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are relationships customizable?

It’s the final week of collaborating with the brilliant and dashing, Chance Taureau (at least for now.) Relationships: can we go full hipster and make them unique butterflies, or should we stick to what we’ve been given…? Maddie Berky: I have mini existential crises in airplane bathrooms. The space being too small as to make

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can I love up close?

I’ve loved men who aren’t here. I don’t change the sheets after they leave. I keep hung the towel they used after getting out of the shower. I use it for days hoping that it’ll help me remember what it felt like for them to be here, that some part of them remains in the

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