Don’t kill the spider.

There’s a lesson in softness.

Of letting things be if they are not bothering you.

But yesterday I wasn’t soft.

I slipped on a hoodie that smelt

like the way you do your laundry.

A dash of this. And that.  One of these. 6 sprays.

Even the laundry had to be controlled.

A plan.

A pattern.

Always knowing what step comes next.

If anything is fucking predictable it’s probably a fucking washing machine.

But it didn’t matter to you.

you’d tell a fish in a tank it was swimming the wrong way.

Because anger looked a lot alike control.

You had to be the ring around the Rosie.

Circling the prey.

The washing machine.

Me.

Her.

Money.

Power.

Ownership.

The washing machine.

You hated the way it spit back at you.

I wonder if doing the laundry gave you some sense of control of the chaos.

Because you know it’s exact steps.

And you still don’t let it go.

You obsess over the way it spins.

The way it it doesn’t need you once you get it started.

How the chore is exhausting you.

How piles of clothes have turned into peaks of their own mountains.

The laundry.

It’s like some sick obsession.

And it calls for you when it’s done.

I bet you like that.

Start. Rinse. Repeat.