The porch floor creaks and moans. Old, damp wood, rotting from the inside out.

My mouth is dry, but I know this is it. This is the house.

I force saliva to coat my cracked lips.

The door budges without any effort behind it. One small nudge with both hands.

I step in, leaving the door precariously open.

A barely visible hallway spreads in front of me through the darkness.

My eyes adjust to the complete lack of light as I step deeper into the house, the wooden floorboards suddenly silent in comparison to the porch. The safe porch.

The air is thick. My body starts shaking, and once again I know.

This is it. This is the house.

The shaking gets worse as I go up the stairs. A long staircase, the wallpaper on the surrounding walls yellowing and peeling. The front door slams suddenly. There is no wind. I'm not welcome, and they know it. I know it.

My whole body becomes heavy the further up the stairs I go. Another hallway stands before me at the top. Several rooms with completely closed doors. One of them is open--

no.

That is the trap. Do not step into the open door. Go for the sturdiest one, the one that is completely shut. But it's so tough, because that one completely open door shows me a room full of light. Of warmth. I can see a bonfire crackling away, the scent of melting chocolate, marshmallows, cold pines. Christmas. Warmth. Caramel.

Why can't I just forget all this silliness and go through that door?

Wouldn't it be easier? It's a nice place to rest. To finally let go--

"Stop it."

a screaming voice breathes into my ear. I jump, a yelp held back.

The rest can't know I am there.

The shock from the voice is enough to make me realize I was one step away from going into the room. On second glance, the room is not warm. It is not bright. It is darker than the rest of the house. Stains around its walls, its floors. I do not need a light to know their color, their origin story. A rank, putrid scent.

Stop it. Goddamn it. Stop it.

Forcefully, I walk away from the room. Towards the one door that is completely closed off to the rest of the world.

My hands are burning cold. This is it. This is the door. I take a deep breath. I knock.

No one answers.

But the door opens, a draft of wind hitting my face.

Before I know it, a small frozen hand slides into my own. The voice is back.

"Please. Don't leave us."

I do,

I do think about you.

In parking lots

in grocery lines

in coffee shops

in dinning halls

in podium stands

in traffic jams.

During long exams

during long rides

during warm hugs

during cold stares

during painful sweat

during cheerful tears.

I still find you in the warmth of my bed,

in the spilling of the milk.

I haven't forgotten you,

I swore I never would, and

I mean to be a woman of word.

So dear little me,

I'm making this for you.

I'll make our dreams come true.

My friends come and go,

my anxiety only grows.

"Impostor Syndrome" is my daily life.

Why do my friends even like me?

How did I get a leadership position when I am no leader?

Why are these people bothering with me?

There are good bits I suppose.

My sister is supportive of me.

I friends who stick around during the hard times.

I have hobbies that I want to turn into careers.

I know where I want to go in life.

But everyday I wake with one question,

"How?"

Nothing left to prove

To myself

Others who judge

Judge a past

In the past

Outdated beliefs and

Worn-out layers of ill-fitting clothing--obsolete uniform

Not defined by my past

But my future

The future's as much

A part of my life

As my past

But the one that's malleable

To discard what's done and bestow a new wardrobe--bespoke and personified

My present is busy

Crossing that line

Minute by minute

Sentiment by sentiment

When my present falls away

My future lands solidly in its place

Any my clothes finally fit--my colors, my path, myself

What is tomorrow? May I ever know

What is fine is fine day by day

I’ll wake, I’ll go get ready

Be ready, and head to work

I’ll work, work’s fine and all

But it’ll end, and that’ll be all

I’ll clock out, leave and get to the car

I’ll turn in on, turn my music on

And drive off reflecting and pondering

What is tomorrow? May I ever know

What is tomorrow? May I ever know

What is fine is fine day by day

When I arrive, I’ll undo my shoes

Change into different pants and lay loose

Legs land at the foot of my bed

Long past dinner; still hungry, I head

Downstairs to fridge for some bite to eat

Eat some food then it’s back up to see

My parents, older now, laying in bed

Sleeping, sleeping early than late

No chance for me to say goodnight

I head back to my room, whole house is quiet

It’s me now with my thoughts, and I wonder

What is tomorrow? May I ever know

What is tomorrow? May I ever know

What is fine stays fine day by day

But when it’s time to sleep, there is none

And when it’s time for peace, there is none

Every night can only go wrong

Every day can only go as long

As what we stay up for

And as I lay and think of all these things

I realize what’s been the trouble;

My grandfather, weak, two hours away

Laying the same position as I

But weaker, older, more reliant

For him there is only tomorrow, and still he wonders,

“What is tomorrow? May I ever know”

What is tomorrow? May I ever know

What is fine stays fine day by day

But pain. You’ll hear it and know it

But pain on the surface is pain

Pain buried is hardened and often constrained

And woken alive, an unpleasant burden

Especially when in need of sleep

When he’s in need of sleep

I cannot imagine being there

And when I go to visit I scare

He won’t remember what I’m doing there

And when I visit I scare

Someday myself I won’t remember

And these visits aren’t always in person

Instead, when I try to sleep

And when I try to sleep, I wonder

What is tomorrow? May I ever know

I could do this-

or that-

or switch off

Multi-tasking,

my elusive,

tempting vixen

I'm so tired

without having accomplished

a single useful thing

I just happen to but absolutely perfect in every possible way.

Except...

I secretly love the smell of gasoline

I memorized Genocide by Lil Darkie

I like clouds so much they make me cry

I cry a lot but I don't know why

I get stuck in high places

I love seeing faces

Like I really really like staring at people

It's a little bit creepy but I think they're pretty

Well, maybe not always but they're human and that's pretty cool

I like getting dirty

I get tired at three thirty

but I wake up at seven and I can't fall asleep

so I make a mess in my room or draw on my feet

I talk to myself in the mirrors for hours

It was never my fault it was ours.

I write on my arms, I write on my legs

I burn the butter when making my eggs

I overshare, but I lie

I'm obsessed with guessing the time

And... I would rather walk for hours than do my homework

But all that aside, I've no toxic traits whatsoever, you?

I tend to be too quick to trust. Not just people. I've made accounts for many different writing websites and more because I was too lazy to read the description. That's the reason I found Prose and it hasn't backfired yet.

Emphasis on the yet.

Oh, there is the one part of suddenly having 500 emails a day since I started this habit. I wonder why...