The Apartment

Scratched wood and smudged beige walls,

The shriek of a vibrant orange teapot.

Dust and cat hair settle on the desk, the table, the couch, the bed.

Outside, another person’s dog barks, someone else’s car rumbles past.

Outside, another woman’s child plays on the sidewalk.

But the inside is mine.

My bed, my table, my couch, my clothes, my books.

Books filled with women, with power, with new age ideas and nude portraits.

The books are mine.

The tall black chest of drawers is becoming mine

As I gently fold and store items that reveal thighs and stomach and back.

I am an ongoing renovation

I am tearing out the Someone Else’s and the Other’s like moldy sheetrock

I am rebuilding my mine-ness with books and crop tops and a fridge full of beer.

There is not much space between theirs and ours.

But the space is mine.