people line their windowsills, like flowers leaning to the sun
yet they're there day and night, phones in hand, cameras on
a hallway filled with paintings, every one wearing moving eyes
every window has an owner.
I'm afraid there's nowhere to hide.

every whisper is about you, every laugh, and every scowl
even when you've never met them, they dig your skeletons somehow
they make you telepathic because you know every sound is your name
every kind word supports malice.
I'm afraid no one is safe.