Jump Off the Roof, Maggie!

I am a tangled mess of ire and frustration.

I am all the insects in the cold black dirt after some spyglass-holding shithead lifts the rock. Earwigs, earthworms, writhing grubs and pillbugs, all turned over on their backs with their wee little extremities waving mutely in the air. That's me.

I am a saucepan, too full of something starchy, boiling over on the stove you just scrubbed clean. I’m the cat who didn’t see you coming. I am a thundercloud, unsatisfied with water droplets, flinging hail.

I’m the suitcase you had to sit on to zip closed, straining as it's bumped up a seemingly endless flight of stairs. I am a still-wet load of laundry, tangled in a solid mass by a drawstring liberated from your favorite pyjamas. I’m the fork, somehow loosed from its compartment, jammed against the left-hand runner of the silver drawer.

I’m the one wheel on the grocery cart that doesn’t turn. The dam against the river. Drunk in jail.

I am a weak, metaphoric blend of Alanis Morissette (don’t you think?), Leonard Cohen (I have tried, in my way), and (some say) Bette Midler.

Oh, fuck it.

I am not a poet.

I’m a you-know-what.

And I am hot. 



Not a chick-a-wow-wow kind of hot. More like a there-would-be-sweat-dripping-in-my-cleavage-if-I-had-cleavage-but-I-don't-because-it's-too-hot-for-a-bra-so-instead-the-sweat-is-just-sort-of-pooling-in-my-belly-button kind of hot. 

Yuck.