We sleep in one bed, we live in one room, we're one, always, even in the bathroom.
The nine year old lifts up her chin, asking for a kiss. I make it last only as long as to make it appear genuine.
The wild boy is hard to catch, but even he is reluctant to let me go do something for myself. He cries, and clings to me.
And I cry from guilt and fog, from overwhelm, from guilt again. And guilt again.
Just please don't touch me, but cuddle me at night.