Homecoming by Layla Salomon (20, Texas)

It’s back. 
The familiar hand that 
wraps around your throat, 
pins you flat and pushes 
breath from your body. ​

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You fall into it like an old habit, 
hole up inside yourself and 
burrow down into flesh and tissue– 
cold to the touch but 
warm on the tongue. 
​
You devour every shred of 
something real you can scavenge, 
feel sick, 
force it up, 
wish you could taste even just the acid.

Brush your teeth, 
wash your face, 
blame the emptiness on the scrolling, 
look to the sky for something, 
swirls, 
stars, 
an illusion of explanation, 
and find dark. ​

You are home.