Extrospective

The worst thing about being?

That unswerving assumption you can’t see

The sweeping beneath the carpet;

the lumps that lie there become mountains - 

In the corner of your retina you watch them - 

Your corneas scraped

By every new harsh-toned phrase

Or lie

Beaten back by a brush as though it

was never said –

But in your head

It fills the cracks; the fibres in the wool grow

pointed with the shape of it

Cairns of a grudge

So when the rug’s pulled out from underneath

You’ve been here already