Basement Babes Poetry, Basement Babes Zine

You Don’t Live Here by Sabina Lindsey


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

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