Nine to five
is nine to six
then nine to seven
eight and nine
and skipping lunch
and checking email
while stuck in traffic
and logging in
while decompressing
and needing conclusions
before you’re truly done.
Clenching jaw
and constant staring
and lack of water
and lack of sleep
lack of smiling
bring migraines throbbing
thrum pum stab
to proud to whimper.
Stall sitting
maybe crying
maybe retching
rehearsing
mental soliloquies
delivered powerfully
standing tall
head high
back straight
chin up
and it’s devastating.
And your brother is engaged
and your cousin is pregnant
and your mom got a dog
and your gran joined a club
and your friend’s not a friend
but a hollow social media presence
who occasionally reads your posts
and …s your overtures
between cocktails and beach vacations.
And you have a wrinkle
permanently furrowed
between brows
you no longer shape
and you have a headset
through which disappointment
is imparted
and you kick yourself
for stolen social moments
with coworkers
instead of reading
one more email
and that typo
in your excel
haunts your dreams
and you wake
already tired
already afraid
living with dread
of devastation.
Your crafted notice
sits in draft
just in case
you argue your brain
out of its rut
but you’re an adult
and adults hate
and you hate
and look how grown up.
And how you can’t look
at yourself in the mirror
without seeing errors
to nitpick
and to judge
and to compare
and to hate
that you won’t fix
because you’re weak
and I should quit
before self loathing
leads to an irreparably grander exit from life.
The Proud Dandelion 