For days I’ve said only
half of what I did and didn’t want to say,

& did all that I do every day:

tried to escape.

I don’t know what I’m doing anymore
& escape makes such a mess on the floor.

Maybe one day I’ll make a decision
I won’t regret again
        & again
            & again:

always the same,
always failing to stand up to myself
& forgetting
to hide from the scaring knowledge

that all things are pretence
yet everything is true…

but I’m lying to you
            again.

I have no pain
just a feeling of constant nausea
& all the talk of trying to escape

is just a way
to plead for sympathy;

pathetic, really,

            isn’t it?