Smash

Should I be more worried about my daughter or my mother.

The fact that I’m mostly ok being home alone all the time, or the intensity of my desire to disappear to somewhere where I can be a different kind of alone. Clean alone. Quiet alone. Elsewhere alone. Anonymous alone. Alone alone.

Should I be more worried that my daughter won’t dress herself or that she won’t eat fruits anymore.

Should I be more worried about the environment or civil rights.

Should I be more worried that none of my bras fit or that I’m still wearing the same gigantic, soft underpants I bought after my c-section, almost five years ago.

Should I be more worried about the chickens my eggs come from, the the gerbil upstairs, who declanned from her sister and may or not be depressed right now.

Should I be more worried about my depressed gerbil or the friend I cut ties with who doe snot live upstairs in my office, but who may also be depressed.

Should I be more worried about my eyebrows, ungroomed for a year, or the fact that pants with buttons feel like what I imagine an ass corset would feel like?

Should I be more worried about my filthy floors or my filthy bathrooms.

Should I be more worried about the two brown bananas in the bowl or the eight already in the freezer.

Should I be more worried about the fact that I sometimes don’t wash my hair for a week

That I never make sure my daughter’s socks math

That there is a small glass container stuck in the cup holder of her car seat that may never come out unless I smash it into a million pieces.

Should I be more worried that I have so many things to worry about, or that smashing something into a million pieces seems like an excellent use of my time right now.

(Written in Wordplay Workshops April 7 Workshop&Brainstorming session. Inspired by the poem “Alive” by Naomi Shihab Nye.)