if.

I was home,

I would have just risen,
In shorts,
holding on to the rails, kicking loose the fragile pieces,
Ageless china, red chopsticks,
My bottom on cold marble,
I savagely toss the contents of wheat and meat,
attacking every morsel.
Drew Carey 'tings' and Brady taps.
Not one to lose, I humbly attack today's media clowns,
burst of flavour and pods of seeds swirling on an inflamed tongue,
The greedy esophagus monster gleefully awating the smooth translucent sheet,
Cheecheongfun.

Instead,

Two hours too early,
Having been stirred by the bitter cold,
Hood over head,
I stumble from under my sheets,
Cursing the weather.
Project Runway plays,
The constant continous whirr of heat,
droning the voices of gay men and the *cough fashion forward,
A peanut butter jelly sandwich, a hot cuppa.
I run back to bed, shivering under the doona,

Blocking out what it is to be.

I don't know what I'm doing here.
Clearly, I don't belong.