The Thing(s) About Meditation I Got Wrong
one.
two.
three.
is it recycling day?
i don’t make it past three (again).
hello, my little papancha.
you, you, you. you, the wild blaze of night, the burning ember of day, the terror taking peace stealing jamba juice squeezing bitch.
your witchery is as benign as recycling day.
i don’t even wait for you and you still catch up to me.
c’mon, you can do ten, i self-loathe.
one.
two.
three.
four.
meow.
sometimes my little papancha stops to listen too. now it’s a tuxedo coat kiwi and her sister wanting their wet food friskies. my little papancha loves to squirrel and scratch and pad and cling and climb any self-imposed mental breathing fence i put around her.
it’s like a game. a sick, twisted presence stealing f*ckery-job-of-a-game.
one. two. three. breathe. four. breath. five. halfway there —
what time is it?
wait, what?
