My husband's uncle Bob passed away last night. He was too young, positive, funny and smart to fairly leave behind such a void.
Who will be The Human Cannonball now?
Wrapped in something metallic, magnetic, somehow generating its own light. Tough.
Still I think about how I feel. How awful, huh?
How I feel like an outsider to those that used to fold me into every dark corner of their life. How I am "good with trauma" but unable to be good to and with my own family.
"There's nothing you can do now." "We'll let you know when it's time to come."
Rightfully so, they never did tell. It's over now and we'll get to scrapbook the program. Cut the edges off so that the image bleeds. We were spared.
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Thanks, dear blog, for letting me only come complaining. There are good things too, but burdening some other walking being with my problems seems selfish. So they get the good and you get the bad. I'm not ashamed to say that you get better writing, though.
