Questionable Tense

I am: 

static noise on repeat

25 angry, drowsy bees as it is getting cold

tension in a bowstring drawn a little weakly 

a mostly unopened bottle of 8-year old sirup

a rock you brought home from the beach 

the collective consciousness of a colony of flour moths

a cake baked with the webbed home

a sun-bleached book behind glass

staring up into the sky, slowly getting warn down by the waves, becoming less and less like glass. 

Replanting scorpion grasses

She calls me, with a voice full of whispers,

and lays claim to my reality, 

I get angry, I've worked hard for it. 

A small thing, a memory re-written, 

"you never did any yardwork". 

Whatever. It's not like you were really there.