i don't want to go home.
i'm sitting on the train, two stops away
i don't want to go home.
home isn't the right word,
i don't think.
home is warm, or it's supposed to be but -
my home is bone white, makes me cold
i'm one stop away.
i don't want to go home.
the train is quiet, screeching, building pass like dominos.
i don't want to go home - but
i'm already down the steps, water residue from this morning clings to the floor and - almost there but
i don't want to go home. i'm almost there and the world is so loud and so stifflingly quiet and ―
i'm home.
i don't want to be home.
i put the key in the door; walk up the stairs; take off my shoes; take in the air; hold my breath and count to ten, everything will be okay― but only then.

ein
twie
drie
fyr
finuv
six
seven
shmo'ne
na'an
eser.

but i got the numbers mixed up, one two three four five six seven eight nine ten;  ackad shty'im shalo'sh arba chumaysh shaysh shev'a shmo'ne teysha eser; einz tsvy drie fyr finuv sechs zimin ackt na'an tsen―
now i'm at thirty but ―
time feels irrelevant now.
my head feels clouded, sitting on the couch in the quiet.

i don't want to be here. i want to go home, not to whatever this house is.