sober at the bar. silent in the car. can’t be bothered to move or speak when the stars are inhaling. this room wants nothing to do with you. the sofa sinks beneath yr weight, door swings open/shut open/shut as an invitation—leave. but leave? home is a porch pace, kitchen where fleas fuck in half-eaten boxes of triscuits. conversations here are tried on, tossed off. if the boy sitting next to you turns the light off, it means yr going to be touched. in the morning, the sun will shun yr nakedness. you’ll befriend a tree. the neighbors wont wave back. repeat.