humbert humbert. (8.13.16)

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

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

because you took my home of a body

rearranged the furniture to your liking

just so 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

and knew it too

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 40's era “hot” jazz never left enough room for women anyway.

a beard never felt so much like needles

a dragon in ink never felt so much like fire

and 21 extra years

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

while I sat there with my esophagus too swollen to speak from all the coercion

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

tucked me into 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

so on the days I had living nightmares rampaging my mind,

I could not find 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

but rather a plausible romantic story in your head. 


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