At least if you don’t ask, I don’t have to lie. I’ve spent most of the past few months asleep on the bathroom floor; sick of keeping everything in, too tired to let it out. “Home” is such an empty word. I’m not sure why it felt whole coming from your mouth. I’m not sure why I felt whole. We both know I’m just an idea to carve into sheetrock with swollen fists; leaving worn out holes that your heart never fit. I try not to wake up, but my body is used to (everyone leaving) routines.