I am not a spider tucked amongst the cobwebs. Eight legs. Eight eyes that are opaque and glaucomic. I do not sense the vibrations of change. I do not linger in the dust for that moment when the web’s strings are tapped.

I am not the buzzing, chaotic fly, smacking thick headedly into the window. I am not the thin skinned larvae tilting along the offal smeared inside garbage bags.

I am not the waitress that, with a snap of fingers, can twirl and make requests, nay, demands appear and be satisfied. I am not the fairy godmother. I do not tap my wand and create temporary impressions that will melt at midnight.

I am not the empty egg shell or the dust motes that twirl in the sunlight or the veneer of dog hair sprinkled on a pillow or the detritus of dead, dessicated hydrangea fronds twiddling in the wind.

I am not the white tree frog perched on a plastic drying rack, dreaming of the sun. Waiting for the cold to spin me into my hiding place where the frost can’t reach me. I am not sticky fingers and bulbous eyes and a pliable tongue that chirps when the sun sets and the spring evenings are warm.