There are so many things I find I'm forced to remember.

Sloppy drawings of sleepy Buddha in the back of a rotting notebook.

Cake crossing my eager ears, as I jam my hip beneath the stair-rail,

Trying to achieve balance over the world I've been forced to claim.

"Start therapy." What silly sentiments will you drown me with next?

I just wish I didn't remember things all night, that his face would leave me be,

But, instead, I see it on every white, piggy figure drawing his fists too close,

In mirrors, like in dreams, and every time I close my eyes, trying to escape myself.