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.