The house is frigid like a hospital. Dad says that's the way Mom likes it; I know it's just that she has gotten used to the way Baylor chills your spine and paints goosebumps on your forearms.
I am shivering, but the blanket is too comfortable. I am sad, but sobbing means giving in to grief. I am tired perhaps, but sleep is impossible when my mind is ecstatic on hopelessness and my stomach growls with a void junk food can't fill.
I don't know what I am mourning anymore, I am simply thinking of you. I want you to be happy, I want your heart to be free from the burdens that your soul feeds. Is that miracle too much to ask for? Too late-- I already did.
(For the first time since February the pain feels like I am being stabbed in the gut. It won't go away, I trust my Savior but the ache remains lodged in my throat when I try to say certain things. I would stab myself to mimick it all, although I know it wouldn't make things better. Hah, I have already been killed.)
I was drawing another picture to add to my sketchy collection of art that i began this morning, and I was thinking of what "I'm sorry" looks like.
All that came to mind was you.
So I'm sorry.
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