Trays of trash like trauma

you are not up to my standards

Says big white cat,

Shaking off the dust in your eyes,

And you keep it in your mouth

So you don’t argue, a good mouse

You are.

You don’t do anything, look at you, you can’t even clean right—-you can’t even sweep enough, and look at how much money I make and how you spend too much, you know deep inside that you are not good enough,

And it’s true, I’m not, I know.

You’re a parasite, you are treating me wrong, you aren’t happy, why?

Why? I ask myself?

I am not feeling well, the trash is piling up inside, the stuff you mushed into my face.

It was never taken out.

Or recycled.

All that dirty stuff you swallowed

All those things you stuffed down

To be good,

Made you feel bad like a dirty sewer rat,

Not a soft new mouse anymore,

And now, like a over-used dirty dish rag,

You are thrown away too,

But still in reach

In case they might have a scratch to wipe up.