I catch myself in a mirror and smile a bit. My hair streams behind me, joyous. My pants are loose, too loose almost, and I have a jaunty swagger to my walk, improved by Ladytron and Friendly Fires.
32 years in, THIRTY TWO fucking years, and I finally feel beautiful.
So this is what that feels like.
He whispers to me how soft I am, how he loves the feel of my skin. I melt, just a little more, until I rub my throat raw purring as I do, the low murmur of pleasure, of being seen and heard and enjoyed, the settling into that warm place beside him, the scent of a new lover. My body arches toward him, and he holds me closer.
I don’t even hear him snoring as I drift off to sleep, smiling.
For years I was a thing. A quiet, miserable thing, fighting for something that was never real.
And then, it left, and I woke up and saw, for the first time in my adult life, my own face, unwavering, clear and bold.
No longer the void. No longer the absent, muddled mess of a head. Instead, a full bodied constellation of dreams and glory. A lovely creature, buried all this time under what I thought I needed and wanted.
A delicate thing, made of stars.