how many times do i have to flip my pillow over before there’s no more of me left on it? how fast do i have to go to get enough momentum to fling myself to mars? i think about you all the time. i don’t know what that says about me. if i gifted you a wind chime made of the bones in my legs and my hands, if i tied them up all pretty, when it rang, would you hear me or the bones? when the chimes were deep, would you hear that summer when you thought you were doing me a favor or would you hear the bones? when the chimes were light and lilty, would you keep pretending you didn’t know what i was doing that school year or would you hear the bones? i wonder. i gift you nothing instead. what do you hear? i wait and it’s quiet. no boney wind chimes. i haven’t even driven you home. i flip the pillows on your side of the bed but it doesn’t change anything because you never touch them. there are three cold sides to your two-sided pillow. i don’t know how you manage things like that. teach me your ways. you’re magical. you sleep on the couch. i can’t imagine why.
i can’t stand to sit here anymore. maybe we could go to church or something. that could be fun. knowing you, you’d hear god and he’d tell you to drive a stake through my heart. knowing you, you’d think about it. maybe we could go to the lake and you could think about drowning me. maybe i’d thinking about drowning me too so you didn’t feel so bad. i don’t know what that says about me. i’ve got to grind all my insides up to fit in my bed. i have to cut seven toes off just to fit in the door. and then i walk over the cheap rugs you got from home goods with my only three toes and i think about all the memories we’ve got here. peeling leather off my skin and turning all the lights on. watching you chain smoke in the driveway through the blinds so i could time my panic attacks just right. i got so good at saying sorry and so bad at paying attention to what for. i come back for nice pairs of socks but i leave literal parts of my body and i don’t know what that says about me. i’m trying not to think about it. i know you almost as well as you know the back of my head.
i didn’t know this was going to be about home before i started writing. another thing — i’ve never stepped foot in the attic and i hope the roof collapses. i hope the shutters fall off the windows and mangle all your flowers. i hope it all burns up someday. and i hope the people under the floorboards you told me about go up with it. what does that say about me? maybe that i’m a coward or that you’re terrifying. maybe that we’re both horribly selfish. maybe that i’m lonely. (or that i’ve only ever really wanted two things — to die and to be loved.) maybe that i’m traumatized. that you are too. maybe that we’re human. none of this means we’re ever going to forgive each other. none of this matters at all. especially not now, after all the damage i’ve done with this one. our house burned down. there are dead bodies in the crawl space. where are we going to live?