My shoulder hurts, and I can’t help but to wonder if it’s you, breathing down my neck, like you once refused to do. It weighs on me like the agony of a thousand tiny devils, insisting that I do their work in the dark, cramped annals of hell.
Today, I did.
Was it the walls that pushed me down, or my own refusal to dial down the tone? Was it Frank, telling me to self-destruct? Was it a teacher with a plan, a preacher, a message, some value? Or am I stuck here wondering the unknowable while somewhere 800 miles away the truth ll is still running from me?
Let’s talk about 800. Even better, let’s talk about 1-800. How you never called me with good news. Not even once.
Let’s talk about how FaceTime became NoTimeAtAll.
My shoulder still hurts. But now I know that it’s not you. It’s me. Some burdens are too heavy to carry 800 miles.