A squatter lives in my head
who will not go away.
He found a fucking magaphone somewhere
and uses it all damn day.

He lists the dishes in the sink,
the laundry on the chair,
the pile I keep meaning to sort
but leave sitting there.

He does not say to do them.
He says to look and stare,
to watch myself not doing them
as proof I do not care.

So I start with something tiny,
a drawer, a plate, a shelf,
a quiet little doorway
back into myself.

And slowly, bit by bit,
the megaphone loses ground.
Not silent. Never silent.
But no longer the only sound.

He moved into my head for free
and made himself at home.
But I am learning, slowly,
the house has always been my own.

I cannot get him out.
So we fight for the knob instead.
Some days he wins the volume.
Some days I win my head.