On the Matter of Coming Home | Aaliyah Perry

Photo by Jakob Owens on Unsplash

It’s the end of a very long day,

I’m quite worse for wear,

and my hair could use a comb.

I’m, sleepy, sapped, spent,

and every other word for tired,

both known and unknown.

But it’s okay,

because I’ve made it to the end,

where I can sit back and kick my feet up

in the comfort of my home.

Yes, home at last.

Where life isn’t so demanding,

nothing is expected of me,

and I can finally shut down the dome.

As I sink into my sofa, and think of

how my shoes, coat, and purse all have

A separate place to be thrown,

I wonder how come no one ever talks about

The grueling production that goes into coming home.

Unable to muster up the strength to unzip my coat,

I sit and ponder my disillusionment on the matter—

all the post-labor labor it takes to get to bed

that we carry out daily, completely unbeknown.

There are just so many steps that must be taken

before you can really get into the zone.

I find myself in a dread-induced paralysis,

refusing to officially wrap-up the day,

mindlessly scrolling through my phone.

Maybe if I sink deeper into this

Tik-Tok rabbit hole and pretend I don’t exist,

my shoes will walk their way into the closet

all on their own.

“Be grateful! Not everyone has the luxury of

clocking out and climbing into a bed of their own!”

That’s what they’ll surely say if I dare voice my intense gripes

on the matter of coming home.

But it doesn’t lessen my burning desire

to x-out and shut down my brain after work

like a tab in Google Chrome.

I wonder if it’s as hard for everyone else

as it is for me,

Or is this horrid laziness mine alone.

Whatever the case may be,

It doesn’t help me in my struggle

In finding the will to remove my jeans,

which, with all the chaffing,

I think would be best to no longer postpone.

And from there, prepare dinner,

Complete a multi-step skincare routine,

and more.

I’m starting to think that maybe

the so-called “luxury” in this production

has been ridiculously overblown.

After about five minutes,

I realize there’s probably no point

in working up a fuss on the matter

of coming home.

I of course will, in due time, remove my shoes,

And start the production,

Just as the heavenly fantasy

Of a clean body in clean sheets

Gives me the drive to finally put down my phone.

Sure, I have my fair share of moments

riddled with pessimism and sloth,

but at some point, I think of my hard work that day

And realize I must atone.

So, I demand, “quiet on the set!”

To all the unhelpful thoughts that want me

to, for once, rot on the sofa.

Because, yes, it’s a lot of work,

But if anything is worth the love and labor,

It’s myself,

And pimples from skipping my skincare routine

Is something I will not condone!

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