Dear Lover,
You wanted to break me, shove me into the mold of some pitiful creature I’d never recognize by sight. Make me over, do me up, photo shop me into your 18th century ideals of the perfect person. You shredded all of my short-shorts, and burned my little black dresses, snapped the heels from my stilettos, and trashed every ounce of my mascara, so I’d never blink too seductively in anyone else’s direction. Someone said, “You can’t turn a hoe into a housewife.” Well, you can’t turn an asshole into a husband either.
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