Shame is the lie someone told you about yourself. – Anaïs Nin
Think of all the poems, all the songs, all the prose
That say ‘help me! I am diseased by you, and your attributes!’
A woman stood outside your home wearing only underwear (not her own)
And saw you
Blinkers on as usual.
Always the same, baby; cold war.
Coincidences, as usual.
meaninglessness and less and less.
It might have snowed. A bum might have frozen.
There’s too much watching going on all around.
You are dissected constantly, as you may be aware.
You think you are an invisible voyeur.
But she can’t wait for you to click on her again.