Holed up in a filthy duvet

tightly bundled up
with the TV muted
scrolling YouTube shorts
trying to escape the shame
of not being able to remember getting home
how do you purge it
is it enough to sweat it out
maybe I should go sit in a box
and tell the Father
fingers grasping at the rosaries
dirty words reverberating from
the walnut panelling 
or perhaps I should strip off my top
lean forward and Cat-o-nine tail myself
in front of the image of Mary 
maybe shame will pour from the welts
or possibly I’ll say a small prayer
make the holy sign
hum a hymn and read a short bible passage
instead of laying here
cocooned in the 12 tog 
with a bowl of salt chips and a 2 litre bottle of Cherry Cola beside me 
the reruns of the soap building to some inevitably futile cliffhanger