Hostile, NYC, Proud

The deranged cyclist

My bike is my beast. I hit the streets with that trusty steed and blow through intersections like the laws don’t apply to me.

I forgot to take my meds. I’m shaky and I’m loud. I’m not unproud. I see myself making a scene; removed from it as if in a dream.

They all wish I would remain unseen. They think I’m unclean. Obscene.

I don’t prove them wrong. I shout from my cycle, yell thoughts that sound profound in my head, but come out profane. Am I insane? Maybe. Am I to blame? Who’s to say?

But who likes to slough through each day as if in a swamp; drugged and dopey; kept from feeling the few small things that still make me feel human?

Those pills are inhumane. Even if without them I’m insane. I’d rather not drain my brain of the last bits that make me want to remain.

So try to refrain. Just look the other way while I display my pain.

Just look the other way.

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Hostile

The animal in my apartment

Cats2There’s a stranger in my house.

She’s just as furry as me, but fierce and tiny.

I don’t understand it. All these surfaces, edges and fabrics – I’ve worked for years to claim them; rubbing against them nonchalantly, as if nuzzling instead of conquering territory.

And this little terror comes tearing through each door as if they’re hers!

I try not to shake; not to stumble and retreat. How is something so small so fearless?

I want to fight her off, chase her out of this house – my house – but they seem to really like her somehow. Hello?! I’ve been here for years! I can roll around like that. I can dart across floors and furniture in a furry frenzy. See?

I’m the one who has warmed your bed, kept you company, indulged you so very many photographs.

Yet here she is. All new and shiny, and all of a sudden I’m getting pity pets as if my character is diminished by her cuteness.

I don’t understand it: This stranger in my bed, on my chair. In all my favourite places, I find traces of her there.

Cats

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Hostile

The angry woman on the sidewalk

Angry woman on the sidewalk“Excuse me!”

I shout it. It’s out of my mouth too quickly but I’m glad.

I can feel my eyes widen, and hers meet mine.

She looks as if she wants to be helpful; as if she hasn’t just crossed right in front of my path to get into some store. She doesn’t even  notice. The nerve.

I hurry up to meet her as she asks, “Yes?”

“Why’d you have to cut me off?” I’m still shouting. I can’t help it.

She looks confused. Ha! Just because I was a few feet away, just because she probably thinks she could’ve gotten inside without slowing me down.

Doesn’t matter. The nerve.

“I’m sorry,” she stutters. “I really didn’t mean to.”

Bullshit. Let those cheeks go red.

“Oh yes you did,” I say, quieter this time. My head is cocked and my eyes are wide and she looks a bit frightened.

Good.

“I really didn’t,” she tries again, like a moron.

I don’t want to look at those pleading eyes any longer. Even if it’s better than not being noticed at all. I walk off, thump my hand upside my head.

Some people. Idiots.

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