SLAM!

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Unaware, she entered the bathroom battlefield,
but too soon she was trapped within terror.
The eager enemy sat waiting in the corner,
like a sniper selecting his moment to attack,
curlers in damp hair – her only weapon -
as fear froze her feet to the tile floor.

This mother was reduced to a fetus upon the floor.
Her husband was the usual soldier on the bug battlefield –
using his manly man-ness and a left shoe as his weapon.
Spider took two steps toward her, which added to her terror,
without hubby to protect her from this arachnid attack.
She prayed he’d just be satisfied with his newly claimed corner.

Alas, he skittered and twittered away from his corner
and inched as she flinched in a heap on the floor.
She glanced around for something - to protect her from impending attack.
The pickin’s were slim in this impromptu battlefield,
but she could only take so much torment and terror -
so she picked the first things that could double for a weapon.

“Ha, ha!” She cackled, brandishing her chosen weapon,
to the not so big beastie in the corner,
drowning in size, compared to a bathtub. Not so much the terror
she thought him before. With toilet brush dripping water on the floor
in one hand and a can of deodorant in her other, she was ready for the battlefield.
She had her makeshift sword and teargas – she could thwart any attack.

Swallowing her fear, then swallowing again – she moved to attack
this wiggly warrior and his powerful oogieness weapon.
Waving the toilet brush, TP in its bristles, she controlled the battlefield.
She let out a volley of squeals and squeaks when he crawled further from his corner,
closer and closer to her frontlines and her mental line in the floor.
That was it – she’d had it – she was done being commanded by terror.

Patting her curler helmet, to assure all was in place, she approached the tiny terror,
and used the “strong enough for a man but made for a woman” attack.
The skirmish scattered scared dust bunnies across the floor.
She grinned. She was delighted to discover her own weapon
of mass aerosol destruction, and pleased to see that in the corner
was her nemesis, legs up and twitching on the powder-fresh battlefield.

No longer tied to terror, her wits the only needed weapon.
She’s certain the next attack won’t have her quivering in life’s corner
or flattened on the floor. This woman can hold her own on any battlefield.



Holly AKA Red Writing Hood