The Hell Inside Her
Woke up this morning to a tension polluted kitchen. Roommate seems to enter, take it over for a good clean, but has to clean like she’s been regulated by the government to do so. Joy in such an atmosphere feels suffocated out and the kitchen feels stuffed with an intoxicating heaviness that either induces a need for sleep or a need to dodge thick corners of potential interaction that will leap out of nowhere and sabatage with great ferocity and unrelenting blame. I breathe tight, small, keep to myself, open a cabinet, close a cabinet, reach for a bowl, a spoon, all with the precision of a meek tiger. If I so much snap a twig, who knows what kind of hell might erupt. Finally I sit down, eat my breakfast, wash my bowl and spoon, place bowl and spoon in the dishwasher very gently, deliberately, and leave.