When February rolls around, I'll roll my eyes
Turn a cold shoulder to these even colder skies
And by the fire, my heart it heaves a sigh
For the green grass waiting on the other side
It's always Winter, but never Christmas
It seems this curse just can't be lifted
Yet in the midst of all this ice and snow
Our hearts stay warm cause they are filled with hope
In spite of August taking over the Christmas playlist with his never-ending love for Kelly Clarkson, who does indeed put out a tremendously emotion-filled Christmas album in comparison to (most of) the others, I pulled rank, since he lives elsewhere and have parked Relient K's Christmas album. The boys are not impressed because I've played In Like A Lion at least fifteen times until PJ stepped in with his rarely-glimpsed impatience. It's profoundly sad and it takes them forever to realize that's why I love it.
Enough, Bridge. I'm going to change it for a little while.
The camper was a cage, walls making up the bars, door never left open lest I fly out and away onto the summer sky to somewhere new. New is a pipe dream and I can't see through to the other side. Freedom is a myth, told around a campfire to a small but eager eight-year-old girl with a sticky face and a reeling head from too much cotton candy after dinner, one who was never sure if a myth is a real thing like history or a dream-story like Treasure Island or Les Miserables.
(Wait-)
He didn't wake up, didn't budge, didn't move a muscle with me in his arms last night and I'm sick this morning, overheated and under-comfortable. I'm already plotting to go somewhere else, anywhere else because Lochlan's fear is claustrophobic, suffocative, and terrifying in its strength. The eight-year-old is no match for it. The adult who hides her down deep inside even less so, as she had the most precious, incredible gift of ignorance and naivite on her side and I don't. Not anymore.
I can't find enough words to make that fear go away for him. Ben says Lochlan has to get rid out of himself, that I can't do the work for him. That I can't make him dependent on me for that, that he needs to figure it out and until he does, he will take it out on me.
He tells me to go-
I know. He'll figure it out. Just do what you want and it will either be enough or eventually he'll break and then he'll fix it.
My mind flies out from my skull (bones are bars too) and finds Jake on a rooftop. Jacob couldn't fix it-
Aw fuck, Bridge, that's not what I meant. Loch isn't like that.
"Like" what?
But Ben has walked right into my trap. It's a widowmaker and Jesus Fucking Christ, I can't even set it up properly. I just walk in circles in the woods and every now and then I come across it and there's a man in it and the jaws are closed and I act so surprised, as if I had no idea this would happen.
And my brain will say, Oh! A MAN. Whatever shall we do with him? And then I pick his bones clean, cast a spell of resurrection, and we do it all again in the morning because what am I if I'm not some magical, carnivorous bird to sweep into this glorious nest at holiday time and get. fucking. stuffed.
Enough, Bridge. I'm going to change it for a little while.
The camper was a cage, walls making up the bars, door never left open lest I fly out and away onto the summer sky to somewhere new. New is a pipe dream and I can't see through to the other side. Freedom is a myth, told around a campfire to a small but eager eight-year-old girl with a sticky face and a reeling head from too much cotton candy after dinner, one who was never sure if a myth is a real thing like history or a dream-story like Treasure Island or Les Miserables.
(Wait-)
He didn't wake up, didn't budge, didn't move a muscle with me in his arms last night and I'm sick this morning, overheated and under-comfortable. I'm already plotting to go somewhere else, anywhere else because Lochlan's fear is claustrophobic, suffocative, and terrifying in its strength. The eight-year-old is no match for it. The adult who hides her down deep inside even less so, as she had the most precious, incredible gift of ignorance and naivite on her side and I don't. Not anymore.
I can't find enough words to make that fear go away for him. Ben says Lochlan has to get rid out of himself, that I can't do the work for him. That I can't make him dependent on me for that, that he needs to figure it out and until he does, he will take it out on me.
He tells me to go-
I know. He'll figure it out. Just do what you want and it will either be enough or eventually he'll break and then he'll fix it.
My mind flies out from my skull (bones are bars too) and finds Jake on a rooftop. Jacob couldn't fix it-
Aw fuck, Bridge, that's not what I meant. Loch isn't like that.
"Like" what?
But Ben has walked right into my trap. It's a widowmaker and Jesus Fucking Christ, I can't even set it up properly. I just walk in circles in the woods and every now and then I come across it and there's a man in it and the jaws are closed and I act so surprised, as if I had no idea this would happen.
And my brain will say, Oh! A MAN. Whatever shall we do with him? And then I pick his bones clean, cast a spell of resurrection, and we do it all again in the morning because what am I if I'm not some magical, carnivorous bird to sweep into this glorious nest at holiday time and get. fucking. stuffed.