I am having a bad day. Admitting you do not feel okay feels like an act of empowerment. So does typing out my feelings instead of writing them in ink, because these angular letters, bright screen, and tapping keys hold weight in our world. The shape of my pain claims to be truer in Times New Roman. Or maybe just flashier. Who knows. All I know is today I am having a bad day. To the teapot for consolation.
I had forgotten what kind of trap a spider lays. The spider’s web that reminded me was thick—more chunks of cloud then spools of fine yarn. It was a clunky web, really, not graceful at all. I went to the tap to fill the pot with water and there it was on my kitchen window, on the other side of the glass.
Somedays, not always, a second cup of coffee will sabotage my day. I get the shakes all over; my lungs and shinbones quiver. The moth inside the web was like that—like me badly caffeinated—all shaky limbs and misdirected movement, desperate hiccups in a shroud of white film. So there I stood: elbows pressed into ceramic sink, forehead to my side of the glass, rooting for escape.