something old
Coming home was not as easy as I thought. My things are scattered and misshapen in this room. They are big and awkward and impossible, like the dreams of childhood. I pace the halls a hundred times, like I have hundreds of times before. It is a different sort of pacing, the kind that is weighed down with dissappointment and worry. I cannot get comfortable again in this house.
I want to tear off my skin and hang it up in the hall closet as some kind of marker, something to make this home.
Sleep deprivation and over caffination make sitting still feel more like trying not to breathe. At 3 am, I walk outside and my face is smacked by rain. I pace the driveway now instead of the halls, pressing my bare feet into the sharp, damp cracks in the asphalt. Desparately clutching a cigarette, I try to remember when this house felt like home.
I give up when the filter burns my fingers.
I want to tear off my skin and hang it up in the hall closet as some kind of marker, something to make this home.
Sleep deprivation and over caffination make sitting still feel more like trying not to breathe. At 3 am, I walk outside and my face is smacked by rain. I pace the driveway now instead of the halls, pressing my bare feet into the sharp, damp cracks in the asphalt. Desparately clutching a cigarette, I try to remember when this house felt like home.
I give up when the filter burns my fingers.