new flat
it’s 6.46. i’ve been awake since 5 but i don’t want to get up. it’s an unfamiliar bed. i don’t want to figure out a new routine. the train drums by every few minutes. i wish the rhythms were a man, telling me what to do. i would be hypnotized, comforted. my dreams didn’t bring much comfort. it feels weird to be in a body and have hands.
i need to cook breakfast. i need to unpack my kitchen things. there’s barely any room in the fridge. i told three people i was back. i’m not ready to be back. i look the same as last term, if not worse. i need to do work on the bus. i'm already behind. no one cares that i'm back.
the flat isn’t bad, i guess. it smells like cinnamon in the hallway. the girl whose room i’m subletting has proust and foucault on the dresser and i wonder what drives her to read them. the door to the bathroom jams and the floor is soggy, literally soft, wet laminate squelching under your feet. i have no slippers.