My existence is an act of war.

I was not bred by submissive women—

I talk back

And don’t always know when to admit I’m wrong.

Dishes will rise to the ceiling,

Becoming a cesspool for plagues

And maggots.

I’ll step over the piles of dog dung in the den

And leave them for you to squelch your toes in its cold, mushy heap of smelly waste

When you’re half-asleep,

Making your morning commute to your dead-end 9 to 5

And running on caffeine fumes.

I won’t make you dinner after a long day

Of slaving away for corporate America.

You can feed yourself.

I want to put my feet up,

Watch my daily dose of Days of Our Lives

And forget about the mind-numbing chatter of complaints you have for me when I walk through the door.

Oh, you say I don’t care enough about _your_ problems?

You drink like a fish

And smoke like a chimney.

You always make everything out to be a joke

And wonder why I laugh at us.

Hand in hand,

We look like a funhouse mirror.

You’re tall and skinny.

I’m short and fat.

They should put us at the center of their circus act

And throw their peanuts for entertainment.

My mother strategized—

Weaponized incompetence.

Burn dinner.

Let the children deface the walls with their propaganda.

We are raising an army of self-sufficiency.

Once you leave the safety of the womb,

It’s a war zone.