I don't know, I don't know if I can go back. . .
When you're this god-awful sick -- the throat, the not being able to breathe, the coughing, the alternately drippy and clogged nose, the constant dull throb of the headache, the inability to eat and keep down anything other than graham crackers -- . . .sleeping in a cold, lonely bed doesn't cut it.
It hits October and the temperature is already plummeting. No heat to speak of other than the space heater in the computer room.
And when the boy's not here, I miss him. Achingly.
The little voice that represents all my tough girl walls and boundaries tries to tell me to pull back and come up for air. That I'm aloof and casual and unnattached. But I'm not. It's not like I chose to fall this hard. It's not like this isn't wonderful. Maybe this is me, afterall.
It hits October and the temperature is already plummeting. No heat to speak of other than the space heater in the computer room.
And when the boy's not here, I miss him. Achingly.
The little voice that represents all my tough girl walls and boundaries tries to tell me to pull back and come up for air. That I'm aloof and casual and unnattached. But I'm not. It's not like I chose to fall this hard. It's not like this isn't wonderful. Maybe this is me, afterall.