growing out

when I come home I forget every other place I’ve been. some kind of amnesia or just another excuse for the ongoing decline I watch from the passenger seat. not even the faintest murmurs of growth are retained, every hint of newness discarded like sins with shoes at the door.

the clothes I wear all feel too loose and I’m left no choice but to sulk for respite from the bedroom. I built my problems here out of little more than idle time and privilege. letting loneliness and boredom play til they’re holding the cards and telling me which ones to burn. I say less than I should and take the good for granted. listening to other people talk and reading what they write. I hide from the news and myself like a child. what am I if not the ungrateful son of worried parents?

my toes press against the board at the end of the bed. I think about growing out of what I know and a lot of things I wish I’d done. a bug taps on the glass to the tick of a clock I can’t see. I open the curtain and ask the window to wake me with the sun.