The Weight of A Man On Top of Me

Buddhism and ovulation.

I want to feel the weight of a man’s body on top of mine, pressing me down hard into the earth. I want to be squished and grow roots and feel grounded and stable and smooshed. I could have that, I’m sure, but not without it getting weird. I scroll through my contacts and every potential willing body comes with too much fanfare, pressure, extra baggage–the wrong kind of heavy.

But maybe I need all that density because I feel myself floating up, up, up, alone and untethered. I am more delicate than ever, a tiny crab that outgrew my little shell and have yet to find a new, bigger one. Overwhelmed by the vastness of my aura, the space I’m occupying is infinite and unknown as I blast through the LA basin’s marine layer and out past the atmosphere, beyond gravity, faster than the speed of light. Like Katy Perry, I’m an astronaut.

I miss my mom. Maybe not MY mom, but just the idea of a mom. Mother as a concept. I usually consider Earth as my mother. And Oprah. But where is Oprah? Where is the…