Their words were disingenuous. Dripping with desire. Oozing with intention. They made her cringe and retreat in the opposite direction of their manipulations. She felt it in the tension in her back, in the slight urge to vomit, in the urge to hide. She wouldn't smile in return, or feign pleasure. What did they want? What did their slippery smiles try to elicit? She wouldn't give it to them, and so they called her a bitch. -j
It's like a wash cycle. Press play and it knows what to do first, the thought that follows, the spin cycle that takes over, and the short calm that exists before it all begins again - the drum never getting emptied. Just an endless rinse and repeat, no change of clothes, no new soap, nothing new at all. It's these same old thoughts, the same old process of attempting to wring them out. To finally cleanse them of their soil and fill the drum with something fresh. Yet it seems like nothing new will ever get added. There will be no opportunity. The laundromat is closed, or indefinitely broken. Relational struggle filled with critique and complaint - all righteous of course - it's what's stuck in the drum now. I desire new thoughts but, somehow, it's always the toxic parts that want the longest wash cycle. Sometimes I open the detergent drawer and add in a heavy dose of bleach, "that'll do it, it should come out clean this time." But it's hard, trying,...
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