Resistance poem (private don't read:)

In resistance to myself I let the clothes fall where they may
The pots stay sulking, drenched, bleeding tomato sauce that leaves a rust colored scab
Residue in piles and mounds and other, stranger configurations
In resistance to myself I refuse to move, to pick up my hair, to pick up the phone
I watch the seasons change from my perch, I fashion a wing out of dustballs and refuse to affix it to my shoulder blades
I do not leap, instead I slip into the furniture, the stench of unwashed sheets and pillows that are the only soft thing between myself and the world