There’s a hole in front of my front door.
At night, I make sure the windows are closed,
the door locked,
and settle in with the hush of the TV.
My eyes grow heavy, finally;
I punch my pillow gently,
dig my hip into the mattress,
waiting for the unconscious to hold me.
It finds me, quickly.
Waking up,
I peak out the window to see if the hole has grown.
It won’t rain today, for sure,
so I crack the windows open
(unable to stand the draft while I’m in the room).
Ready to leave, first double chekcing I have my keys,
I take the leap,
pulling the door closed behind me.
There’s a hole in front of my front door.
I’m returning home, late at night,
drunk from youth and time.
There’s a split second before I fall in
where I say to myself,
you know how to avoid this,
and then I keep falling.
Once I’ve cried and thrown up, sick of myself,
I leverage myself out,
balancing on the ledge,
fumbling for my key.
Fill it,
circumvent it,
save up for it
and leave it all—
all of it has been said.
How boring things are
when I’m not heart-racingly,
blushingly,
calculatingly
skirting it.
Recommendation: “Blink”, Episode 10, Season 3, Doctor Who.