i return to my parents home
nestled too far into the
battle field of mediocrity.
i am asleep in a bed much too large for
just one body,
but when my best friend is too tired
to make the drive home,
i find myself choosing the couch
while she sleeps too small in my bed
too large.
in that, there is something
particularly sad and sick
and i find it in myself
when she asks me
as i sit across from her
eye to eye,
'where are you?'
and i hold my words
in the back of my throat
and they choke me,
silently panicking,
and a clear lie is freed from my lips:
"i've just been really stressed lately.
i'm taking a lot of credits (i think about
what it would be like to die too often)"
and we move on
because she knows i'm lying
if only to hide,
but i return to my bed at night
alone and missing the feeling
of being lonely, because at least
that means i feel something

about this foreverlike distance
between me and myself
and myself and everyone else.

so i retreat to the couch
where i pretend that the cushion
is someone i can lay next to
without wanting to find
somewhere else to sleep.