At night the house walks
backward through the day.
Emails un‑send,
mugs climb into cupboards,
crumbs knit themselves
back into bread.
Your chair rises
without you.
By the time you touch
the doorknob,
the porch light has already
lost your name.
In the hallway
walls change their mind,
one second they smell
like your first apartment,
next they taste
like holding your breath
in a childhood kitchen.
Upstairs, old selves
sleep in borrowed beds.
The floorboards
count everyone
except you.
Meg Taylor is a writer and business process manager. Her work explores overwork, anxiety, neurodivergence, and the strange ways ordinary days tilt sideways into something surreal. She often writes about office life, childhood ghosts, and the quiet, stubborn acts of refusing to disappear. Her work has appeared in Exposition Review, Fjords Review, Welter, and other journals.