coming home
going home is the echo after a shout, the wind slipping in through the sunroof, tousling your hair, the
lingering warmth of a deep hug. going home is wonderful.
it’s the coming home that will get you.
the wind is halted and everything is silent and still, the stainless sheen of a renovated kitchen sullied by your
reflection, disturbed by your hunger.
when you forget to take your shoes off, you track in dirt. the creaks of the stairs remind of your
inattention, your apathy, your trepidatious footsteps tremendous in a place like this, everything put perfect
in its place
except you.
the door now a half-inch open, cool air slowly replaced by the hot, exhausted rot that must stay outside.
distrust appears out of annoyance, and malevolence follows soon after.
every move is questioned, every window opened blinding, every floorboard rougher, every little sound of
skin brushing against skin deafening.
try and be still, for once. it cannot be as hard as you seem to think.
the front door becomes heavier each time you go out, shutting before you’re halfway through, holding
that fleshy, tangled, bloody mess hostage until you inevitably end up
coming back home.