humbert humbert. (8.13.16)

You never got your poem from me. The one you cried upon hearing I was writing it.

I am not here to respect or admire you like I once did

I started to stop recognizing

my home of a body,

the one you took

rearranged the furniture to your liking,

every wall painted over -

just so you felt like you could call it yours.


When you rang the doorbell and I never came

you picked the lock,

made your way in where you didn't fit,

knowing all along the way.

you told me you weren't a thief,

yet stole all my prized possessions, unwarranted

shut the windows and formed shutter shades with your sweaty vintage clothes,

the wallpaper your zodiac pages of counterfeit seduction,

the living room your car where your fingers roamed free and refused the lease,

the bed you made from words you plucked out of my mouth and wove sheets with and wrapped yourself up in, a silk like skin, 

the kitchen your venue where your affinity for bebop still liked its women complacent.

a beard never felt so much like needles

a dragon in ink never felt so much like fire

and being barely 18 years old

never felt so heavy

on my fragile


like glass pressed between wood

brick collapsing onto mortar


The sickest thing was,

you told the neighbors I let you stay

and got by by convincing yourself I loved each visit of yours,

followed my footprints like I was only human when it was convenient for you,

tucking me into a bed with a comforter like plaster

as if my lungs had solace in finding no air,

left with you lingering on my sheets, dripping on my refusing palms,

all the warning signs and the power dynamics I gave up trying to fight,

forgetting that there was a time

I once knew safety in the confines of my own body


You see,

I don't care if I am a captivating artistic muse

or a mesmerizing Scandinavian love fantasy

or a sexual object and a shortcake face

because I am not the Lolita

that Vladimir speaks of

and no longer blame myself

for the narrative

I did not realize

was also my own

the controversy that you chose to ignore, then and now

as if it wasn't too impossibly a reality after all


I am not where you pitch tents and make woodfires from the bones and skin of innocence,

not your outlet of Freudian utility

I am the home that stands alone

and when I desire guests,

I will invite them, voluntarily.


Let me be clear

while my innocence is on its way out -

I am not

and never will be

your home.


Sasha BerlinerComment