Log -4: I Don’t Wanna Fight

I might blame the ceiling fan

The chill, the constant whir

Or the blinds I refuse to close all the way

Strips of golden afternoon light are the closest thing to God I’ve ever known

Halogen bulbs,

Dilated pupils,

Stranger in the mirror

“You really let yourself go”

is what I expect to hear

But that sounds like freedom to my ears

The compulsion to explain my existence

With my sweet, unassuming tone

Gold silk honey in asphalt tea

Forgiving in silence

Something needs to change

I plant my feet on engineered hardwood

I conceive of a manmade forest

I’ve never seen a real thing

Beyond these furnishings

Something is changing

It might be quiet outside

Or maybe my voice is loud, cutting

A butter knife performing its function

But I think I’d like to know the silence

I’m frightened

I’m beckoned

I’m leaving with the door unlocked