If You Lived Here, You’d Be Home Now

I had always thought it was impossible to see nothing. When the lights go out you still see the darkness, when you close your eyes you still see black. That was until he proved he could see it every time he looked at me. Absolutely nothing. In his eyes I could tell he didn’t see me. He was looking at me, but still he didn’t see anything. He didn’t see the exhaustion, the bones, the ghost that I was. He didn’t see the hair that broke for him or how obvious it was that he loved me more when there was less of me. I had been digging my own grave with the shovel he handed me for years. I was breaking my back and scraping my fingers. Slowly deteriorating into dust. I was dying, right there in front of him. I knew I was. And he watched, but saw nothing. Not me, or the grave, or the digging, or the dirt. All he saw was himself inside the shovel’s reflection. He was a genius. I had to give it to him. And he was about to get away with murder. I was going to die, I was so sure. And as I pictured it, becoming one with the dirt, I couldn’t help but think of how ridiculous this all was. I heard a laugh. Short and choked, but there. It had come from me. I laughed again a little louder this time. My shoulders bounced as I did. It was almost funny when I thought about it. I laughed at the sight of myself and how I was being killed by a boy who couldn’t even parallel park.