You Don’t Live Here
I observe with my tongue in close relations
To the tops of my fingers that once traced the small of your back
Your sativa, your indica, your colt 45 play melodies I hate
The way your pupils dilate at my presence
the way your mouth moves on my ears
that monologue
That weeknight, fog perforating my lungs as you glance upon my fitted lace
And bite the bottom of your lip that belongs to someone else
I do not like the riddles you spit out, quick fire, burn down walls
Intentions played off, eyes shift, and I stay solemn
I do not like your trivia, your weekly specials
corner store, cheap thrill, no commitment type
no midnight, drive thru, no time to get with type
no space, shift in, shift out, feel good type
You don’t live here, but you rest your thoughts
You rest a year of apologies, a year of beds that
Don’t belong to you
You don’t live here, but you stride
Head held, king’s robes, smoke and ashes
Onto another’s sweat stained carpet
You don’t live here, but I come
I rest my palm in your palm and we stride as one
But I do not like it, I do not speak
I watch and I listen to you exhale
Into someone who is not I
And I think it must be lovely
To pollute their lungs with your glass shards
Watching while they inhale cuts, bleeding upon your cotton
By Sabina Lindsey
Featured in Basement Babes, Issue 16