Calliope

 I'm devolving dangerously into another downward spiral.  Your long-suffering sighs spin me  out of control. Hostility hangs in the air, heavy, like funeral flowers and putrefaction. Unfiltered, unrelentingly emanating from your bower of bullshit, and no Guyon in sight to burn that shit to the ground. Your help always came with strings, and you expect to hold the control, to make me dance until I'm wooden just like you until I'm only half-alive just like you Mezza Morta just. like. you.

             “Miss Jennifer, whose turn is it to pass out the snack today?” The tiny voice was barely audible over the 24 other four-year-olds in Jennifer Campbell’s pre-K class, who were currently socializing more than working on their craft project. Miss Jennifer rang the Be Quiet and Be Seated Bell on her desk a few times and waited for everyone to scoot back to their desks and sit quietly.             “Good job! Thank you for listening!” Miss Jennifer firmly believes that children respond best to praise and encouragement when learning expected behavior. “Rose, will you please pass out the snack today? Your daddies made these wonderful cupcakes!” She produced two containers of rainbow frosted cupcakes from the “snack drawer” in her desk—the deep drawer also has a lock to keep sticky fingers out. They all know where the good stuff is kept.          ...

 I feel the pressure of your aggressively passive presence like a disturbance in the Force. You never say what you really mean; I can sense your spite a bitter bite of blight, the essence of a sour disposition.   You haunt this house, not really living. Judge, jury, and executioner in a week-worn nightgown. You’re my straitjacket, my fitting room mirror; I never want to see myself through you.