I’m not sure about calling it home. It was the place where I watered plants that were only growing roots, except for the poisonous one. A place of unfulfilled projects, of ideas too lazy to become anything else.
The only people I wanted to see talked to me in written words, printed on yellow paper.
The place looked abandoned and cheap, like a picture of myself but fifteen percent shittier, which made for a comfortable company, a painful reminder, a relieving comparison and a threatening possibility.
I left my keys on the table, next to the knife I bought him as a birthday present. My eyes fixated on the knife and I surrendered to the urge to grab it.
His name was impressed on the handle, and on its blade, I saw a reflection of my chest.

2017-07-27T18:35:05+00:00 Categories: Poetry|Tags: , |