twowritehands
Watching. Observing. Calculating. She makes no rash decisions, speaks no opinion without first giving it deep thought. She views her options analytically, in terms of what would hurt less. In consequence she is "the quiet one". She is "the nice one".
She is the one no one knows.
So tired. Collapse like a house of sticks against the pillows. Sleep my life away. At least I'm having good dreams.
Be still.
Feel it.
Let it happen.
It hurts.
You didn't ask for it.
And that makes it hurt worse.
You'll survive it.
Just be still.
Prayer is private. I don't go to church. I don't pray to be seen praying and thus prove myself to be better than others. I pray becuase He is a part of me and talking to him makes me feel better and be wiser and act kinder. Prayer is medicine.
I'm single but not single. I'm a twin, and I'm not in a relationship. I'm not alone, but I have no one. My sister is my partner in life, in crime, in fun; we live together and play together. I can say anything to her. But I have no one to hold me and kiss me and show me the intimate pleasures of love. I am single, but not single. I'm a twin.
Marcus had slipped away into the privacy of the stairway to sit for himself on the top step, head in his hands. Christ, what a day. He scrubbed at the dried tear tracks on his face and wished that his week had gone in any other direction. Life had been good, relatively easy, and now this. It was as if Time had betrayed him, had decided to bend him over and fuck him without lube and without a reach around.
There was no going back.
writing since 2014 · 6 entries · 6 days shown up
each square is a day—lit means twowritehands showed up.
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singletwinprayerpraybetterhurtmarcusslippedprivacystairwaysithimselftopstepheadhands