The Poster

The poster is still on the wall.

The one I made in high school—

some band I forgot I loved.

The colors have faded.

The tape has turned yellow.

I've been here two months.

My parents don't ask how long.

I don't tell them.

It's this thing between us now,

this unspoken contract

where they're kind

and I'm grateful

and we all pretend

this isn't what it looks like.

My dad made space in the garage for my boxes.

My mom bought the kind of cereal I like.

They're trying.

But I can feel the weight of their kindness,

the specific gravity of it,

like it has to balance out

against the fact that I'm here,

that I failed at living like an adult,

that I had to come back.

The single bed feels smaller than I remember.

Or I'm bigger.

Or the room is just smaller

when you're not supposed to be in it anymore.

I keep meaning to take the poster down.

I keep not doing it.

It feels like if I take it down,

I'm admitting something permanent.

If I leave it up,

I can pretend this is temporary,

that I'm just visiting myself.

My partner asks when we're getting our own place.

I say soon.

I don't know if I mean it.

The room is quiet at night.

My childhood room.

The place I left.

The place I'm back in.

The place I'm learning to live again,

smaller than before.