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?