Internal Exile

by Abner Dormiendo

I am tired of being here where I am
right now, tired of being a smaller body
within a worn-out bigger version of that body,
like wearing an oversized boot on a rainy day,
tired of having water enter
privacy, tired of having my insides
broken and broken into,
and so for my last birthday
two weeks ago, I asked God
for an electron microscope, but instead
he gave me a map of an unheard country,
asked God for next month’s rent and instead got a portrait
of you in a dress, hands behind your back
like a hostage of timidity, and I feel like a thief
reaching inside you, turning your furniture
into firewood, but in my defense,
the blood in your veins; in my defense,
the roof of your mouth; in my defense, your collarbones
and how they form the smallest cathedral in the world
and the bacteria in your body think
your heart is a god, think your ribcage
is the warmest orphanage, and that is another thing
among the hundred other things
that we have in common.