It’s like a reboot, every time. The wound is reopened and it’s fresh and it’s bleeding and it’s raw and it’s screaming at me that this is the last time, I can’t do this anymore. And it’s hard enough to know we do this again and again, that we climb onto this carousel even though we know it’ll just make us sick.
I just want things to be different. I’m so tired.
See, this is where this takes me. These gaps in my heart, in my ability to rest when I’m with you, simply grow. For a time, they’ll knit together; maybe they’ll scab, maybe they will heal except for that narrow line of tender pink skin that hasn’t quite finished forming.
The carousel ride.
And the flesh rips open again.