by Cat Dixon
What are you doing here? I thought you couldn’t be with an angry zeppelin, fueled for fight and/or flight, notorious for late night raids dropping f-bombs, screeches, and truths no one would
dare say. I’m too dangerous, too flammable, too much like sabotage. Anyone who needs help to explode couldn’t possibly prevent the buildup of static electricity. I easily ignite water—substance doesn’t matter here. You’ll end up like a lead balloon—a disappointment to children at
Red Robin, a birthday decoration landing in the dark corner of a party room, a flightless bird that dissolves into every nook of your house—pipes, paint, the trappings.