Nobody's Business | Sreedhari Desai

Nobody's business

men are weather.
they roll in loud,
knocking over the ashtray,
fogging the mirror with their speeches
about forever,
about god,
about the delicate architecture of their wants.

then the sky clears.
the phone goes quiet.
the bed cools down like a bad tip.

I’ve watched them leave like cigarettes--
all that swagger
turning into a small red dot
and then nothing.

but me?
I’m the constant cheap light
buzzing over the sink,
the last song humming through the radiator,
the hands that don’t make promises
they can’t keep.

I’ve learned my own angles,
the exact pressure of a thought,
the way to take a lonely night
and wring it out
until it drips something holy
into the cup.

I don’t need a man to open the door
to my own body
like I’m a club
with a velvet rope
and a bouncer.

I have keys.
I have teeth.
I have appetite.

I can take myself high
like nobody’s business--
no begging,
no bargaining,
no bruised ego in the doorway
asking who it was.

just me,
dragging my breath slow,
turning the dark into a workable thing,
finding the fuse,
and striking it,

again,
and again,

because the best lover I’ve had
lives right here--
in my skin,
in my mouth,
in the mean little miracle
of not needing anyone
to finish what I start.