On Filling Cups

Last spring, I decided to make the inane decision to write a love letter every day to my ex. I didn’t mail them with lipstick stucco’d to them like a prison sentence, but I did write them, nonetheless. In a little notebook we used to share, I worked through my grief, my love, my hatred. My brain was wired for the endorphins he supplied to me as if he were a resentfully leaky faucet. One drip. One drip was all I begged for. He had trained me to think I deserved no water at all. How lucky I was to drink at least one drop.