And somehow it feels like
My body is a house I cannot afford
Maybe 'cause of the location.
An entire world of possibilities,
Accessible to me with just a few steps
And yet, for some reason,
I cannot step past the front door.
I try to not forget
That when I turn on the lights
I become a part of a dream,
a part of a skyline
people want, people envy.
That living here is a privilege.
No matter how much it seems as if
these walls are begnining to fall apart
I pay my rent.
Earned with sweet late-night chatter and laughter
By painting Orange-pink sunsets on the drive back home
By lacing my fingers with no regrets, so tight,
to ever come undone.
And yet, gradually, price of my existence grows higher
Every single day with
Every tear shed
Every fight where I struggle to make amends
Every story I begin to write
and somehow cannot possibly imagine the end
I somehow start to earn less and less
and my rent is unpaid, still due.
A letter comes in the mail
saying my rent has been paid.
I have a roommate now!
Or maybe I always have.
I think I know him
I have seen that silhouette before
On the other end of the apartment inside my brain.
I am living with depression.
There’s no other way to put it.
He puts my walls up , repairs them
and makes everyone else stay out.
He tells me he’s the only one
who can stand these cramped rooms
It seems as if he's been spreading out
more and more with every passing single week.
I don't think there's any space left
for anything that I recognize as me
I have a roommate now
And he also makes my friend uncomfortable.
'cause when he’s around,
I can't seem to say much of anything
My voice stays almost mute
Maybe cause I don't wanna make him angry.
Don’t wanna hear what he’ll
shout when they all leave (and they always do)
I always try to leave.
Try to find other places with different rooms
Anything to simply forget
that I eventually have to stumble back to him.
I have to face him in the living room.
Listen to his words,
Hear his laughter all night.
Keeping me up.
He wants me to move out.
Wants me to vacate this space, these walls
with no questions asked,
with none of my things packed.
I can tell
By the thin pink sketches he draws in my skin,
his plans to make his own bloodlines.
I can tell by the way he keeps handing me the knife.
I know he wants me to move out,
and someimes I do too.
I don’t know if there’s a difference anymore.