by Caroline Lavoie
i saved a place for you in my chest—see? it has your name on it!
come, take your seat.
don’t tell me i didn’t manifest you into existence—you’ve been the subject of every love poem i’ve written since before i knew your name.
somewhere between my two lungs and yes, dangerously close to my heart you’ll find your new place of residence (i built it before i built myself)—and while neuroscientists search for god in our synapses, you’ll find he’s your roommate.
and that’s not because i ran out of room in there, but because i think you two will get along better than you’d expect
and i also think he’ll be the best judge as to whether or not you’re worth your rent.
~
before you meet your roommate, i’ll give you the tour of the place.
ashamed, i will let you see how dirty it has become. i will assure you it wasn’t always like this. it’s just that the last man never took his shoes off.
consequently, you will ask about the last man.
someday, you’ll find out that not only did he carve his initials in the kitchen, above the stove (i don’t cook much anymore), you’ll also learn that he played loud music when i pled for sleep (it’s why i covered my ears at that concert), that he picked at my wallpaper until it peeled (he tried to call it beautiful), and that he never did the dishes or put the toilet seat down (and still, i allowed him to get behind on his rent).
but for now, i’ll just tell you about the initials.
you will ask, “well, can i paint over them?”
and from the other room, your roommate will call, “i told you! he’s the one!”
~
at this point, while i watch you paint over his remaining legacy, it’ll be my turn to ask some questions: why stay in my chest, and why share a room with god, and why clean up the mess left by the last man, and why plan your stay with such permanency?
i’ll be scared that if i ask you, you’ll tell me that aren’t going to actually do anything of those things, so i’ll stay quiet and i’ll let you keep painting.
but since i won’t have said it out loud and, consequently, you’ll still do all those things, i will go over by your side and kiss your cheek just for good measure.
~
around this time, you’ll ask me if i’ll be staying with you. my breath will catch in my throat (you might think that’s because i’m letting people stay in my chest, but that’s not quite it).
i’ll tell you haven’t lived here in a long time, that when he left, i ran from myself. that when he left, i emptied myself, unsure where my place of residence was but damn near certain it wasn’t within myself.
you will pause after receiving this information. you pause after receiving all information. it’s part of what i love about you.
finally, you will say, “your place of residence is here, has always been here. it’s not your fault that he made it feel hostile here.” i will nod. “what can i do to make this feel like home again?”
i’ll pause, then embrace you. “stay,” i’ll sigh. “just stay.”
Caroline Lavoie is a writer, future math teacher, mother of plants, friend of bees, student of history, and amateur knitter.