—they’re mine.
I don’t dislike the solitude; I wait for it and make
preparations. But I wonder in which atmospheres it hardens,
and where the threshold of loneliness sits. At what point
will the quiet deaden without doubt. Lately, each
of my extremities has gone pointy, tingles.
Is it still chronic if it’s a gentle purring?
This electric hum a sign of danger? I change
tracks just to develop new tastes for clicking
and beeping, to ignore the real urge. In my getaway
plan, my shadow self and I take turns driving.
I could name each breath, splice each second I spend
in this space. I’m too used to this: my treasure
chest of solitude, and its diminishing returns.
All I want is a little bit: companionship and other
honorable mentions. The heated air drones on,
pushes its burning smell through each grate.
The nights have always been mine, I won’t
give them up. Not for cloud or sky.
Maya McOmie is a biracial/queer writer with connections to Ohio, the West Coast, and Tokyo, Japan. She holds an MFA in Poetry from the Ohio State University; her work has appeared in Red Rock Review, MAYDAY, and Gulf Stream Magazine, among others. Lately, she has been sleeping in and hanging out with her cousin’s cat. Her poems attempt to process the complexities of identity, family, memory and ritual. You can find her on Twitter @MayaMcOmie and at mayamcomie.com.