Sunday I’m still in bed at noon with the covers pulled tight to my chin. Mom knocked when it was time to wake up and again when it was time to leave for church, but it’s not hard right now to ignore that.
I’m living on borrowed time, that much I know for sure. The hammer will drop eventually. But the relief at having these mornings free and alone can’t be quantified. I don’t need to be in a big white building, staring at a cross, to think about life and death and sin and suffering. Those thoughts are with me all the time, and all I want is to escape them, not to lean in and fucking sing about it.
As it is, I lie quietly in my sinful bed, thinking my sinful thoughts, touching my sinful body, and letting my imagination carry me, since I know I won’t be interrupted.