Call Me Maddy

It's amazing how people who call you
their friends turn their backs on you
in a heartbeat when adversity strikes.
People greatly prefer to pretend
I'm not really here, ever since I
became a cockroach. I still haven't
figured out who cast the spell that
changed me forever, irreparably, or
why anyone would do such a thing.
I used to go by Madeleine; now they
call me Maddy, partly because they
can tell I'm not happy with my lot.
I hear them whisper in the dark,
"I think she's here. I wish she
weren't." The man of the house
always threatens to squash me, but
he's just too slow and out of shape.
No match for Maddy. Still, he keeps
trying, while the lady of the house
eggs him on, saying, "I don't like
the idea of cockroaches. Not in our
house." Like I'm someone else's
problem. I try, in vain, to get some
messages across: "It's me, Madeleine,"
"I could really use some help here,"
"Please watch what you don't say;
I can hear every thought now."
They ignore every sign I give them.
I'd rather not spend time with the
other cockroaches, so I'm really
very all alone. I've been able to
avoid the "Why me?" questions.
It is what it is. But that doesn't
keep me from reminiscing about
my life as a whole person. My,
was it ever grand not to be a
loathsome insect. Mostly I fume
over everything I lost in becoming
what I am now. I fume and I
nibble away at the corners of your
world. You'll never squash me.
I will be here lurking in the
shadows, hating everyone and
every unfeeling way of the world.
I'm pissed. You can call me Maddy.

(2007)