How long?
Of course, that sleep doesn't come to me at all. So, after I made sure the whole house was rid of his perfume, I sink into the obnoxiously yellow bean bag, with a sketchbook in my arms, and try to drown out any intrusive thoughts about last night. I have scrubbed myself clean a few times, but something underneath my skin still felt horribly unclean and no matter how much I scrubbed with that goddamn loofa, it did not scrub off of me. So I did what I do best. I tried to ignore it and drown myself in my work. I tried to turn it into my muse. Into my fuel... But I end up staring at the blank page for far too long, without being able to put anything interesting on it. A soft knock on the door pulls me back to the real world and my attention turns almost entirely towards the door. My heart
- Writer
