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 folded sheets sang recklessly 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.