Housework

My room, clothes flung out all over the place, an explosion of bras, tops, pants and unsorted laundry. A half-empty suitcase on the floor, from within, Stevedoll staring at me accusingly, blankly, from his bed of haphazardly folded clothes. Accusingly, because I’ve ignored him all year, and allowed my friends shameful liberties with his person, from unimaginative kick-me signs to compromising positions involving a toilet brush and a glass ball. Blankly, like he’s been raped one too many times. (Don’t pout, Stevedoll, we’ll have a fabulous time in Europe, I promise!) Papers… papers everywhere. Some, testaments to my propensity to bullshit academically. Others, not so much. Receipts, dumped, consigned to inexistence, needing to be forgotten. Wires, snaking from pile to pile, like veins waiting to be sliced open. Books, some read, most mocked. Bottles, mostly water, others, not so much. Dust, lint, hair. Small change, glittering like stars, resting on carpet floor like it’s a revolution. My floor, desperately crying to be vacuumed and sprayed, combed and skinned. Pillows and cushions, some kicked off my bed, others thrown down to make friends comfortable. My bed made into an altar of good intentions, of secrets and fears, of loneliness and reluctance.

Open shutters, light streaming in, bright and relentless. Wind wafting through, dancing with music, making things… strange. Piano music from another apartment. Dancing and twirling. Pirouettes and sunshine.

I can’t fold laundry to save my life. There’s always that little bit of sleeve poking out of the fold, taunting me, breathing down my neck. I don’t understand. And pants! The crotch, it’s a bitch.

I see my friend’s old camera. Someone’s shirt, the one I’ve been keeping under my pillow, because I’m disgusting like that. Pictures by my bedside, to remind me. My desk. Impossible.

Nothing perfect, nothing pretty. Christ, I’m going to miss this.


Tomorrow, my living room and kitchen.