I hate vacuuming
For not having one setting
For carpet, wood, and tile
As my failing memory tells me
Things used to work better
I hate vacuuming
For its mundane futility
How it kicks up the same dust
That it’s supposed to be removing
How the struggle is never-ending
I hate it for being hard to spell
In the most forgettable way
And the shame I feel knowing
That without auto-correct
I probably wouldn’t get it right
I hate it for never having a plug
In the places that I need them
That I have to move back and forth
Plugs it in and then back out
That the cord feels always too tight
I hate how there’s always a rug
Or curtain, bedding, or cord
That jumps out and strangles
Until it frantically gets shut off
And scent of smoke rises in the air
I hate how there’s always a memory
Of being chased, cornered, and caught
Of spinning, scratching bristles
Of someone I thought I could trust
And I never see their face
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