I push a pushpin and the drywall collapses into a perfect tunnel. I unroll a blank canvas and ink myself onto space.
The shelving unit bends to just before snapping point.
Cup abandoned, tissue box empty, laundry crumpled.
Stacks on stacks on stacks; bodies on bodies.
I roll a blanket to tuck into the cold gap between our mattresses.
The window leans forward to watch the midnight streetcar short turn onto Bay.
I lean into the wall of perfectly frayed tunnels. Life collecting in all the corners I can’t bring myself to clean out.
As much as I love the aesthetic of a well-balanced living room with everything in it’s place, none of that reflects what it might look like for me to really feel at home. Even as a kid, when my mother asked me to clean up, I’d always reason that a house with some things out of place looked more like a house we actually use. A house with things crooked and piled, still clean but with a lazy hand.
Oh how I love these wall marks and wrinkly sheets; these aging months rattling in closets like loose doorknobs.