while you were away | erin olds

I’d leave the lights on each night you weren’t home,
even in the bedroom,
so they wouldn’t think I was there alone.

I slept with a pillow over my eyes.
Well, sleep is a weird word to describe what I did when
I’d leave the lights on. Each night you weren’t home,

small noises scared me. I’d drown them
with the TV blaring downstairs, deadening the air
so I wouldn’t think. I was there alone

and sometimes I got cozy in a cold shower, afraid
of the air outside waiting to wrap around wet skin. And after,
I’d leave the lights on each night. You weren’t home,

and I would think, safe is a pretty term, a feeling to dream of.
I slipped a ring on my finger, though it wasn’t love,
so they wouldn’t think I was there alone.

I struggled out of blankets, packed my clothes, wrote this poem,
left. And double locked the door.
I’d leave the lights on the night you came home
so you would think I was still there. Alone.

Erin Olds is from Cleveland, Ohio, and is currently an MFA candidate at the University of South Florida.