Credence

by Penelope Douglas

I’m just not in the mood. Of course, I haven’t been in the mood for years, so I guess this is who I am now.

It doesn’t matter where I go—how I change my surroundings or run from all the places and people I don’t want to see. I’m still me. Running, leaving, hiding . . . There’s no escape.

Snowfall isn’t like rainfall. Rain is passion. It’s a scream. It’s my hair sticking to my face as I wrap my arms around him. It’s spontaneous, and it’s loud. Snowfall is like a secret. It’s whispers and firelight and searching for his warmth between the sheets at two a.m. when the rest of the house is asleep. It’s holding him tightly and loving him slowly.

We all acclimate. We learn, we resolve, we come around—it’s not that anything really gets easier or harder. We just get better at rolling with it.

He gets everything I’m feeling, he sees what I see, and he knows what I walk around with, because even though he’s not alone, he’s lonely. He didn’t have anyone to talk to here, and just like my parents’ house wasn’t a home, neither is the peak for him. He doesn’t feel good here.

because the highs with you are so good. I don’t want it to stop. But the lows . . . The lows are like I’m nine again and still waiting for them to love me.

You won’t change, and the bottom line is . . . I won’t stay. You’re not my parents. You don’t ignore me. But you’re punishing me. You wield the only power you have, and I don’t know why I thought I could get more out of you,

Sometimes the clouds aren’t enough, I guess. We need the whole damn storm.