The Pile

I go with the best intentions to face my pile

Knowing the woman that tore this cotton

I dread feeling the dirt she made upon it

It revives the memory I smothered under these sheets I can't rest on until they're changed again

So more from what is reshaping your spine

All the things I can depict from the sketch they've made

I can just about see what they know,

I think

But I've moved back to my prison of weeks

Even now; my eyes are shut but I feel this thread,

I'm all too aware

I can never die so they can never discover what I left,

Right now while alive,

Their self indulgence delays the search

I could move to where I want my life

But it would mean passing them all on my way outside

Even the prisoner downstairs has scratched her way out,

It's just me now,

And I'm used to myself,

But I want a better alone now,

They made it so I can't see past what must be myself,

But not incriminating myself might be the lock for entering anywhere else,

A place I just want to be

I'm enjoying life anywhere

No matter how regular or exhausting

So why can't I make these few steps to the gate

When I'm done preparing

It's dark enough to be still anyway

The keys and clothes have sat here the whole time,

Alike myself