it has been miles since I’ve written: miles since I’ve engaged with the process long enough to produce something substantial, perhaps even meaningful.
it feels as if it has been weeks since I’ve seen the sun even though I’ve stared straight into it from behind dust thick blinds. I am blind and wounded and beyond repair.
I tell her in the dark: when we come into money it’ll be easier. I whisper, it’ll be hard at first, but you’ll be better off.
Scrambling in the pale light she asks, what does that mean? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?