they're watching you,
they're watching you,
they're watching you;
this is what the brain says,
repeats, recalls in a sort of
blaring alarm. it does not
stop until i stop, and to be
fair, i do stop quickly. i freeze.
hibernate.
it is the not-so-instinctual
force inside me, the one
installed by the
unfortunance of
experience: shame.
it is a song, or it is
a poem, something
repeated, catchy.
this prayer is a comfort
only to the shame
because
if they're watching me, i'm wrong,
and my wrong is embarrassing,
my wrong is drawing attention,
my wrong is loud squeaky shoe that
rings and ruins everyone's dinners,
my wrong is poor taste, my wrong
is evil and somehow irreparable and
will forever be remembered along the
way my chin hangs ugly from my skull.
the shame likes when i
think like that.
it is fed. reinforced.
built newer, deeper.
it is only this way
that the lesson can
be learned. i will
never do this ever
again.
they're watching you,
they're watching you,
they're watching you,
but somehow,
the neighborhood is asleep,
the houses dark and preoccupied,
and the world isn't much different,
and the world is so big and so black
and so gorgeous,
and you are an ant
hiding in the dark,
pressing your body into
itself, folding, again,
again, making it so
small it may soon
no longer
exist, tasting
the wet of the
old rain on the
floor of the
porch as
you blow
green
smoke
between
the slats,
and only
you and
the stars
are awake
tonight
because
only you
and stars
are right.