The bathroom floor’s coldness
comforts in light of the surrounding chill.
The crackled ceiling above
possesses a soft spot for a spider
Just like in the children’s song.
Still these seemingly harmless
Future generations that
one day will farm
the last remaining mammals,
like we raise cattle.
Tying them up
Paralyzing them with fear
Then having their way with the poor creatures…
I need to lie down.
Now, thinking of the knot
in my stomach begging for mercy with a voice
heretofore unheard, I circle back to how
I came to be there
in the first place.
Walked in of my own
volition. Took the bait. Was had.
I am my own worst enemy.
I am close to losing it on the bathroom floor,
whatever I have left of it…
Time to find the humor in the Master Plan –
think deep, ominous voice as “Master Plan” gets annunciated.
The voice of god.
Imagine her, the one disordered with narcissism,
standing above you,
the spider has come down to my level
and is crawling along the bathroom floor.
Now with her heal,
big as the moon,
just itching to crush,
for no other reason than she can
she raises her foot
I scream my song silently:
“The itsy bitsy spider."
Many children step on bugs.
She begged for mercy –
Please don’t kill it mommy!–
as the shoe came down on her spider.
(How did I get here?)
Her future rests on the bathroom floor.
And I wonder:
What have I done?