You took me there so you'd know where to look for me.

There is a house on Ritchie Highway. Alone, the house is nestled between a used car lot and a 7-Eleven. I’ve been driving this road my whole life and never noticed. I imagine the inside to be dark and lonely. The floor will be cool and hard. I will lie there and cease to exist. People who may have loved me at one time will pass this house. They won’t see it. They will know neither that I am gone nor that I barely exist behind these walls. In the middle of everything, the house and I will evaporate into something smaller than memories or history, more tiny than being forgotten. It is the core of the suburban heart, yet it is done. Being forgotten is not the same as disappearing. I wish it were. I want to go to this place. I belong there. I want nothing more than to fade to dust and stay where I’m needed, where there are no tests of any kind. Therefore, there are no results. Undisturbed. There’s no one to care or demand or break my heart. There’s no one at all. It seems only natural. I don’t want to fail anymore. I will vanish where there is no sun. I have exceeded my capacity.