Her.

The girl I know so well.

She stares at me. Looking back.

She thinks this game is swell.

The game of compulsions. Of living a lie.

Trapped at my own free will.

She holds me down, close to the ground. Beneath my window sill.

Her. Or should I say, “she”.

“She” started off kind.

The very best of friends.

Do this.

Do that.

Reciprocate that.

And all would be just well.

Soon enough.

She became quite rough.

Her rules, oh how they hurt me.

Don’t Look

Don’t hear.

Don’t walk.

And surely don’t talk.

That is,

Or you’ll

Desert me.