I Stayed Home Tonight

No drive tonight. Too cold. July here cuts right through you.

I cleaned the tanks instead. Five of them. Wiped the glass. Fed the ones that eat.

My hands smell like mealworms and water. I washed them three times. Still there.

I keep checking my phone. I don't know who I want to call. That's the truth. I just keep looking.

The flat is too quiet when I don't go out. I can hear the fridge. The tap. My own breath.

I thought about mom. Then dad. Then I stopped thinking about both.

I keep the black light by the door. I like seeing it there. It means I can still go. I don't have to stay in this quiet.

But I stayed.

I hate that I stayed.