By Phoebe Thomson

I don’t show anyone my private diary,

but someone is cataloguing each search enquiry,

watching all that I watch, reading all that I type,

that third pair of eyes in the screen as we skype,

my location on maps, and the steps stepped each day,

every trip where I use my bank card to pay,

the late night tube back from a less-than-one-night-stand,

the time we went to a&e so they could stitch your hand,

that stuff you bought on amazon and had to send right back

the times you changed your password to protect against a hack,

there’s an unknown watcher watching, who knows well who I am

and who you are,

and we are caught inside their webcam.

jammed, stuck, enmeshed,

they know well who I am.

Nothing to hide, nothing to fear, they say

they know too well who I am, who are they?


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