Tonight, I Sleep Alone

I find myself standing here, yet again, with the door slammed in my face. I’m left to wander through the cold night air, uncertain of if there will be a pillow to place my head tonight. The wind chills me to the bone as I realize that, yes, I am truly alone.

I never seem to read the signs, to see the writing on the wall. The bricks begin to stack, one by one, then two by two, yet I am left oblivious. I don’t feel the distance growing, the desire for space and silence. I cling to the walls not because of necessity, but simply due to desperation, a innate desire to feel something against my skin. I cannot stand be alone.

I know that I can start yet again; I’ve got this system down to a science. The hunt is easy, the windows always dimly lit. A gentle knock, a warm and timid smile, it begins with just that small favor: “Just for the night, or maybe two, then I’ll be on my way.” As they accept, my insides overflow, for I am not alone.

It’s never just for the night, or even a mere week. I build my place, a little nest, and bury myself inside their heart. I think that, as long as I stay inside, refusing to step outside the door, I’ll be safe… I’ll feel loved. As I glance out the small and fragile window, though, I breathe in all that I will miss. Suddenly, there it is again, that painful emptiness, and once again I feel alone.

I cannot bring myself to leave, though; I cannot bear to travel. Yet, I’ll pick a fight, stop earning my keep, forcing my kind caretaker to begin to feel invalidated, disrespected, misunderstood. I hear the bricks as they get delivered, see the scenes of the construction. I block it out, I just ignore, hopeful it will soon disappear. Day by day, night by night, and brick by tiny brick, I peel back my skin and see that I am once again alone.

I find myself standing here, oh, yet again, with the door slammed in my face. I’m left to wander through the cold night air, uncertain of if it’s worth even living past tonight. I am but just a lonely traveler with a pattern of manipulation to simply serve myself. They say not to bite the hand that feeds you, but I’ve come to find a sickening satisfaction in loving then becoming lost and alone.

This time, though, I think I’ll write the final chapter differently. I’ll walk down to the river, hum the final verse, then allow my body to become one with the darkness of my soul and the pool of emotions that lie within. This time, I sleep alone.