I want to sleep. Once upon a time I quite liked festivals, and home. I want to sleep till tomorrow now. Everyday.
They won’t let me.
My house is full of them. Some evenings I come back tired. And I open the door. They are there. It gets very hard to breathe. I have to run to my wardrobe, one of the few places that are uncontaminated… at least I’d like to continue believing so. Stand there. Wait for it to pass. Sometimes it can take all evening. And I just keep standing till my legs and eyes give up. Shoving my face into the pile of clothes has helped on certain occasions.
Other days it’s not so easy to sleep. The bed is most hurtful. Here, they are most present. Their smell. Their spit. Voices. Stink. I no longer take baths unless I am going out. I am never clean. So I must sleep. It’s the best of the lot. Because they make the food taste bad. Like a lizard has walked all over it. You can see the trail. Yellowness.
It can make you puke. That’s when the eyes water. I find that reassuring and it buys me time. There is a couch in the hall I have managed to protect, yes. But I use it only on afternoons when I am really good and don’t want to risk a confrontation. Or during late night emergencies when there is absolutely nowhere to hide.
Elsewhere, the toilet, bathroom, the other couches in the hall… Not safe. These days they follow me when I go out. Crawling upon my mind. Subliminal predators. They want to infest on my sanity. Build their home on ruins of mine. Then they will leave me alone. There is a deal.
They tell me to burn the house. I have declined; my mother raised me better than that. But I might end up painting it red.