this place is masterful
in the art of illusions

one minute the walls
are closing in, and the
next the doors are all
locked and there are
no windows from
which you could
leap to safer ground

i stand in the kitchen
and try to be helpful,
but when washing
sharp knives i have
thoughts that i can't
even write down

there is a man in
the living room, but
he mimics a robot,
spending his days
repeating and repenting,
trying to lure us
into the fold

i feel alone amongst
eight, like everyone
looks through me,
misunderstands my words,
forgets my intentions

fading into corners
and under floorboards,
soon, i will be a ghost