Twenty-seven. Fine-lines. Saturn Return. Adult acne.
Supercuts. Cheap wine. Grey hair. State Farm. Carl
Jung. Tax return. Old friends. C.V. Therapy. T.V. To-
do’s. Credit score.
Large pores. Chin
hair. Pluck pluck. Wax
off. Job apps. Daily
Mail. Lit mags. Birth Control. Grad school? Maybe not.
Roommates. Smoke pot. Horoscope. Tarot cards.
Morning prayer. T.M. My routine. Moisturizer. Facial
primer. SPF. Baseball
caps. Hair masks.
Water bottle. Sore
back. Gas bill. New
tires. Old car. Goodwill. Stimulus check. Unopened
texts. Earthquakes. Level five. Hangover. Online class.
Playwriting. Final draft. Monthly payments. Journal entry.
Pay rent. HealthNet. FaceTime. Small-talk. Grand-
parents. Inbox. Funerals. Leukemia. Mom’s foot.
Dad’s death. Too young. Christmas questions.
Grand children? Long-
distance. Ringworm.
Google search. EMDR.
Bath bombs. Bad
dreams. Long walks.
Long drives. Pulsing
bass. Yellowed teeth.
Reddit break. Weight
Loss. Masturbate.
Plane ticket. Carry-on.
Free food. Expired
shrooms. Lost hope.
Wasted time. My
potential. Untapped.
About the Creator
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Off the Hook
My eyes focused on the illustration of the fallopian tubes as Dr. Marquez fingered me with two digits and a pencil light. Poking and prodding at my cervix, I spread my thighs like I was back at cheerleading practice warming up for a jump sequence. I wondered what she might find down there…a rash? A tear? Old remains of a cheap tampon? In all honesty, I wouldn’t be surprised. In fact, I’d be thrilled to know it was my own stinginess which rendered sex impossible, and not the Judas-level betrayal of my vagina. I needed an answer, some form of explanation as to why my butterfly was dryer than the charcoal-colored dust framing my ceiling fan. Not only for me, but for my boyfriend playing Pokémon in the waiting room.
By Heather Cunningham2 years ago in Viva
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