Bound, and squirming, in the binds

of our own stories.

Brain picks them up, gut tightens and writhes,

unceasing but for moments:

Drop it.

None of this is true.

You are not this.

But the ego likes its house.

Even if the water’s shut off, rafters tilt,

light obscures through unwashed panes.

Repetition of story

and the prison story makes.

Comfortable? No. Familiar? Yes.

Dismantle the house, it is not you.

Brain picks up the story

and You put it back down.

Over, and over, and over, and

over.