Why Are The Fingers Pointing At Me?

Dragged into this filthy room

the fight I put up wasn’t enough

disgust creeps in

like roaches crawling under my skin

scrubbing till I bleed shame.

Efforts to clean it all in vain

the more I try

the more I get blamed

for the mess that has been created;

how I have caused the satin.

Doors bolted, windows open

to let me understand

the life that could have been

if I had been more cautious,

never had that drink.