I’m thinking of opening my skin for you. Starting at the back of my neck, under my hair, taking my fingers to the one hundred little buttons that run down my spine. Held together by childhood fears, they only look like shadow.
Morning broke with shattered glass, a thousand shards humming happily into my skin. It’s a gift to not wake with the familiar cold solace of not feeling. There’s something comforting in sharp edges. We’re making pancakes, or rather, Chris is making pancakes while I type and he talks on the phone to his brother. From the conversation it sounds like his brother lives in Calgary, it’s all bull riding and hitting police officers.
Continuity began yesterday, people coming over one by one until I had my own Sunday tea begun. Chris brought groceries, then Tyler, and Mike came home. He left, soon to be replaced by Andrew. I have a hat now, a top-hat, on permanent loan. (I look like Death, the whimsical female death of the Sandman mythos. Something in me likes it. It’s the first time I’ve accepted that maybe I can be cute). We brought the ferret outside after work and hacky-sacked until it became too dark to see. We were waiting for Mike to come back, I have keys for him, but we had to leave before he returned. I wonder how he and James got along, but not really. I’m sure that no matter the how, things worked out. Andrew needed home, we could not have waited longer than we did.