I keep renewing the lease for my
secret home at the pit of my own stomach.
I have 4 roommates there all of them named doubt,
none of them respect my boundaries.
It’s been going on for decades.
I can’t think clearly
’cause I can’t walk fast enough anymore
but I know that
at 19 I pressed pants
walking fast I put out my right arm
at the side of the road to catch cars
I laid outdoors by myself unafraid of solitude
making up constellations for my dead hero
I danced drunk until the windows broke
and woke up with glass in my hair.
At 20 I vomited up the pills I took
and got high in Chinatown an hour later.
I sculpted clay to my image, but no one
saw me that way and a three-pronged wishbone broke
in too many pieces for anyone’s wish to be granted.
At 21, drank wine alone
avoided countless close calls
and got a dog who has saved my life every day since.
Approaching 24 I wished to go quiet and just hum.
Time blurred and blurs and I don’t know the years
so clearly anymore with who I was
and who was in dreams.
31 now and I still pay rent for that secret home
I share with doubt and doubt and doubt and doubt
but I don’t sleep there much anymore
and when I’m there
I hum loudly to drown out their noise.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Avi Prager is a disabled queer trans dude poet who lives in Seattle. He is an art school dropout originally from the San Francisco Bay Area. Avi likes to read, write, and talk about disability and hope, and is just starting to share his voice and his poetry with the world outside his living room.