Why I wish I was a cat.

Not really a poem because I'm not great at poems, but it was originally going to be one.
Probably just usual teenage whining.

"You need help with this problem"
The clock ticks on, and there's me on the sofa. Hugging a cushion to myself like a stuffed toy or a shield. The cat licks my fingers.

"You don't seem enthusiastic about anything. I think it's just your nerves"
I never anticipated this. They're starting to really believe my act. I've started to believe it too, ignoring the part of me that knows exactly what I'm doing, so as usual my answer is;
"I guess so"
Or "I don't know"
Or a shrug.
Tilting my head just so,
So that it looks limp, as if I'm retreating -
Into myself, peering out of the windows at the stone cats across the room.
The real one purrs, and I envy her.

"Don't you want something?"
I'm panicking too much to be sure of my answer, but even if I wasn't I couldn't tell between the honest and the melodramatic. I'm just waiting to write it down and turn my anxieties into success, however improbable.

I like to imagine that I look troubled, but unreadable,
When I'm more than likely to just look ill.

"If someone's afraid of spiders," I try to explain with an inadequate metaphor. "You don't give them a spider." 
But you introduce them slowly, you make them see it, approach it, hold it, take the first few steps from the house and walk down the road into the nest of them.
The problem is that you don't do that, you say they're arachnophobic and leave it alone, or you laugh and express your agreement with the irrational fear.

But me, I should face it, deal with it, put up with it, be confident, be positive, go for it, for me, for me, for me.

"You're resisting it"
"What's the appeal?" I ask, and this is the one sentence that explains what I mean.

The End

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