Fireside

A few hours on another couch, a few hours of normalcy and smiles, you think it'll put air in your lungs but you walk home later with bricks in your belly. Their ever-comforting light only keeps the monsters away while it's near. Your parents call and you turn the video off, try to keep it short, try to protect them as long as you can. Your voice is weary.

She told me, a while ago now, how her father had to take over her finances and give her an allowance again. She could not handle the slightest responsibility, if she managed to put her own clothes on and get to work. I thought it seemed absurd, in a way; how hard can it be, after all, even when your medicine cabinets are stocked with your insanity. I walked home tonight unsure of what kept me out of white rooms with padded walls and was humbled with recognition. 

As long as I do not breathe, I cannot feel. Pull this straitjacket tighter. I will rest in confinement, a while.