It’s 65, and all the windows are opened, it pretty much feels amazing.
My dog is laying next to me snoring.
I applied to teach a class a few nights a week. Hello extra money, hello nest egg, hello travel.
Life feels pretty good, finally.
Now if I could just get my eating under control.
I close my eyes.
There is a home inside here somewhere.
It sinks slightly to the left.
My knees are covered in mud.
The trees have pushed into the living room,
sunflowers are rotting out the woodwork.
I have grown awkwardly into the floorboards.
They remind me that is okay.
It keeps me full,
all this emptiness.
The windows are all open.
The hinges let go of every door.
Trace the outline of each frame,
hear the echo of hollow footsteps:
I have never been here before.
This is what it must be like;
I am constantly torn between wanting to improve myself and wanting to destroy myself.