The only love i’ve come to know is the gentle and generic touch of my soft pillow. Dirtied with unrequited love interests, honey roasted peanut crumbs, and residual splotches of man-tears (because it’s ok if a man cries).
When in the moments of aggression, I abuse my pillow violently, releasing the anger that built up, but when was never released. When in the moments of love, I snuggle to my pillow tightly and caress its external pillow case as if it were the face of my fantasized lover, or just to have the feeling of my arms surround an object. When in moments of confusion and disarray, I simply lay the back of my head flat on its surface and contemplate my life decisions. No matter what the situation, my pillow has always been there for me. No matter how many times the world rejects me, my pillow awaits my arrival with the intent to heal, unlike the world and its broken promises.