From accross the street, fairylights can be spotted, markings of a realm that belongs to me

As well as the 10 feet accordion pipe crossing my kitchen to fall in the bathroom drain does

This worn out parquetry floor and the high ceiling are also mine, so much so that the winter sun is not allowed past them

My room with a view of nightlife has street lamps that outshine the flames of the passerby’s zippo lighters

And the lowlives, the whores and the crackheads parade the streets carrying their wisps around

The doorbell is mine, even when I can’t control those who’ve rang it, looking for other people

The small kitchen windown, despite being stuck open with grease and dust is mine

Yet I don’t own the cold breeze that breaks into through it, stinging me as an insect, setting shivers on fire

The teather accross the street is not mine, yet the facade certainly is

For I’m the only one to admire it, and have its engravings etched into my skin

Skin thin like paper, chastised by harsh winters, resemblance of the cheap shower curtains that I own

I own this bed in which I lay beside my husband, although I do not own his slumber, his sleep paralysis, his whispers in the night

I do, however, own his heart and loyalty, affection and youth, just as he owns mine and owns me

All of this became ours together, to share what que conquer, to discard what we must, to keep what we desire

This town may be hostile, and by paying a small monthly price, all of this is mine, to keep my love and my heartaches inside,

And all of the danger and coldness be left outside.