Stove Top Stuffing

This is how mad I am right now. Mad and frustrated and screaming mad. So I grounded my body to a chair and watched myself jump up with a chainsaw, swinging it down from behind my head, landing into and through the small little end table that I use as my coffee table and dining room table and my only table all-in-one move. The table is sliced in two, right down the middle. The chainsaw sinks its chains into the floor and tears it to pieces, scattering the bits all over the pieces everywhere, bouncing and throwing themselves at my eyes.

This room is my house. 
My house is just a room. 
Sometimes it feels cozy. 
Sometimes else, more like a tomb.

I sing these words louder, then scream them louder than I can sing. My voice grows so loud I make myself shrink, along with my chainsaw, it's still in my hand. I run around the gaping hole in the floor and slice right through the leg of a chair. It topples on top of me—knocking me off balance and into the hole. Smaller, I fall deeper, and the chainsaw drags me faster, so I let it go and stop falling, right there in the middle, then slowly I float, and grow-up, floating and going up and growing and growing and going back just in time for dinner.

Stove Top Stuffing.