If I don’t go home tonight

There were only the two of us in the house. Whenever I arrive home, I usually go upstairs; That night, I didn’t. We started off with the usual “How was everything today?” and my thoughts went hurling like a cyclone that wanted to grab you by the wrist and beg for one thing that I didn’t notice I so much needed:

 

a hug

 

I have been strong, so strong that I realized you thought I’m okay and I still am. I thought so too but, why do I feel so fragile today? When our conversation was interrupted by a knock on the door, I went straight upstairs and you went straight to bed as if nothing’s wrong. There is something wrong. I am! There is something wrong with me now and I’m in tears because you’ve mistaken it all.

 

You’ve mistaken my cheerful greetings in the morning, the habitual words that I always say in high pitch, the laughter that you hear whenever you try to sleep at night, the fact that I still always, always, always go to work… I am still alive and that’s what you thought. No, I’m dying… I really am… and I have always been dying to tell you that.

 

And tonight, finally, strangely and genuinely, I don’t want to go home…

because you did not hear that I was saying,

“Please tell me that everything will be okay,

that you will carry me this time,

that I have been strong, it’s enough now,

it’s time to rest…” when I blurted out those words and phrases that did not mean a sensible thing.

What I so wanted was for you to be in that room, this time being the sunlight over this drying leaf or maybe the water through these thorny stems. You weren’t. You were the fire that burnt this leaf to ashes. Your words were never the calm that hushes the entire night to sleep: they rather presented to me once more the details of the circumstances we’re in, the details that I so much hate to keep on hearing.

 

So tonight, if ever I still go home,

I probably won’t be there.

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