sad
or
mad
or angry even
better yet
just plain writhing in the pain
without the drama because I can still smile at you
and tell you
I am all right.
Which I am.
Have always been just fine. Fed. Supplemented.
But my worry gets the best of me. Steals my minerals like a pick pocket named Manny Jefferson or Carl Gentry.
If I didn't want nothing, then I guess I'd be all right, like I say in my words.
But my dog has got to eat, and she needs her shots, too. And I, well. I need contacts for my right eye. This one here is old.
And my muscles are sore. They harbor feelings of lack, so they don't like to let go of the lactic acid that they got as a gift. I ran with them the other day.
And that hair man I met said I needed some new color, too.
Copyright by Rachel Drews, 2011. All rights reserved. Any excerpts reproduced from this article should include links to the original.
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