Polarity lives in a hut in my mind. 
It goes out to its garden of tomatoes
and plucks the ripening ones 
for my mother when she comes home. 
And then it goes back inside
to rest in bed, lonely. When she leaves, 
it rejoices then checks her location, 
waiting for her to return. It smiles
when my parents exchange affection
while resenting the harsh cold
of my adolescence. It drinks 
when we’re alone, and stays sober
at parties. It shakes at the idea
of going out alone, but listens 
to true crime shows on the way. 
It spends its days waiting to sleep
and its nights extending consciousness. 
It wonders if my awareness
will cease its existence, and concludes
that only fools hope for its end. 
Polarity lives in a hut in my mind, 
but is in the process of building 
a home.