Quarter life crisis

Move into the kitchen
It reeks like cigarettes, wine and cliche.
I'm 23 years old
The dull gray cat peeks around the corner.
Into the kitchen, she peers
at...

She always stares at what she wants.
Telepathically I do her bidding.
--Such a simple existence.
I am the peak of the food chain;
there is no one to hear my stares.
The domesticated cat -- a slave to the master.
I am her master.
Where is my master?

I am the muted lee of a tree.
The weathered side gleams,
shiny and old with beaten bark.
I am thick and untouched and growing moss.
One should know which side that is on,
But I've always needed a compass to figure it out
despite how obvious...

I am waiting.
I am waiting to be eaten.