From The Inside

At the finishing point of a book

chosen insecurely from the pile
that should rather be read

before anything else,

hours spent in the makeshift spot on

the mattress that has made a pit

hugging my ass like it was never to let go

of a favourite tenant,

like it had never known any other before

and the ass and I diving right into

the only habitat that would accept

us without anything asked for in return.

My sister,

she’s been on four phone calls

since the last few hours,

Four long intense conversations with

friends from the old days from the old cities,

while I’ve been twitching around in my pit

making an aspirational hollow

and measuring my irregular hair strands

with the words on the page

a message from the boy I fell for

a message from the boy I slept with

and the unmoving I stuck in the pit carrying

all my weight

for it would never complain about it

or anything else,

for it would never ask for a response

from she who mastered the fucking

art of unresponsiveness  

like the hermit who but for their ideals

desire sociality, except that weighing

down deep in the pit was never

my ideal.