I can see why nothing has happenedI woke up facedown in a straight jacket made of Lochlan's shirt. That's it. No covers, shirt jacked up to my elbows. In the Boathouse, no less.
Promises strain
I'm writing this down as I run
Take all the examples and what have I learned?
Nothing can heal you and everything burns
And where is everyone? Oh, I don't know. Gone? And it's Monday and I don't know where my phone is or what time it is and it's long past sunrise which means the kids have gone to school and I wonder what story PJ told them this morning over breakfast and the rush to grab lunches/homework/gym strip/umbrellas because they never get their stuff out the night before, like I always suggest.
And here I lie, the sudden Queen of the Unprepared.
I start to struggle out of my flannel cage and abruptly Lochlan walks in, still in his t-shirt and jeans from last night.
Where is he?
Meetings in town.
Did you do this or did he?
I did.
Then take it off and run before I fucking catch you.
Ha. OKAY. Look, when I left I wanted to make sure you'd still be here when I came back.
TAKE IT OFF ME!
I swear to God, I fell asleep last night in Lochlan's arms, his face an inch from mine while he whispered the same things he would tell me when I would get homesick or scared, far from home.
So little changes, ever. And all the Devil did was sit in the corner and stare at me all night and not move a muscle, burning my image to memory, plastering the walls of his brain with my movements, my tattoos and my sounds. Gave him every sense but one. He can't talk a game to save his life against the two of us together and so he lost and he lost hard.