by Rachel Brandt
Sitting next to my sweet husband, I am two people. He is good in every sense but sometimes I look at him and can’t not think about her and the other me; me if she and I had been loved by different people so we could have loved each other. Neither of us brave enough to take on the kneeling benches in our youth, choking on communional lies instead of storming the emergency door, exit alarm blaring symphonies of truth the way a prism splits simple light into a multitude of heavenly hues. She was. Thin trembling lips and thick slick thighs behind a bolted bedroom door: An ocean of infinity but everyone kept telling us we would drown instead of teaching us to swim. Five sweet babies between us now but maybe we could have shared.
Rachel Brandt (she/her) is a writer residing on a small farm just outside of Indianapolis with her family and a lot of chickens. For more of her work follow her on Twitter @Rachel_Brandt or check her portfolio http://writing.rachelbrandt.com