it's been a year

Maybe it's been a year, 
I know this house like 
The lines of my mothers face now.
My life is contained 
Inside four walls, five rooms 
And three bathrooms, specifically, 
A projector in the basement 
That we made exactly a year ago.
I don’t know what else to tell you 
Except that my cat likes to 
Sleep next to the couch in a cardboard box
With glittery purple tissue paper inside. 
Please know that this is not a metaphor
For my loneliness, I don’t need metaphors
To make my loneliness palatable now, 
I just want to tell you that I am sick of my bed
And the glow of my computer screen. 
I bury myself under my old interests 
Like a worn out blanket, hoping against hope 
There’s some joy that I can pull out
Of this threadbare garment. Blankets used to keep me warm, 
But now I'm just using them to keep the cold out. 
I want you to know that this poem is not a metaphor
For the complexities of my soul, I want you to know
That I am past metaphors, I want you to know that my soul
Is not complex anymore it just craves faces and people. 
And in my room there are sweaters strewn across the floor
My favorite one is a burnt beige color, I wear it so often
That i’m sure it’s rubbing off, and i swear
That every social media site I check makes me a little more 
Nauseous at the end of the day, but I want to tell you 
That is not a metaphor for societal expectations, 
It just means that my stomach turns when I see another video 
Of a death on Instagram, it just means i am tired of seeing the same graph go up and up, 
Could you imagine holding someone? 
Sometimes i claw at my own arms just to find something 
To hold on to that isn’t unmoving, that isn’t air, 
And maybe it’s been a year, 
But the breath in my lungs is still struggling 
To find its way back home.