I drank the tap water
in the men's bathroom sink.
It tasted like gossip,
control, and politics.

It lingered too long in my throat—
like a happy pill made of
team buildings and dinners.

All I want is the door,
the tricycle,
and the ride home.

My house is a mess,
So is my mind and body,
I can’t live off stress.

A sip of melancholic Earl Grey rekindles emotion
Glancing out of my window at the great commotion
Birds whisper melodies that beckon my mind into security
But still, something feels awry, dampening such purity
I can tolerate great loss of things, but not of meaning
I am not a mere prop in someone else’s dreaming.
A life without depth, is a life without death.
“Life’s but a walking shadow”, says Macbeth.
The office is a concrete asylum, a prison for curiosity.
Glances of joy afloat an ocean of animosity.
I cannot bear all this, whilst those trees beckon me in.
Without attachment, I would be there in a whim.
But obligations borne of fear bind my feet.
I cannot cross this grey, sombre street.
Freedom waves at me from the other side.
I can only wave back from the depths inside.
If I voice my fears about this nihilistic abyss.
I will be a prop out of action, dropped and dismissed.
I still sit here with my tea, my soul in a tangle.
Do I bury these roots, leaving them to mangle?
Maybe these worries will pass away in the morning.
When I am back in work, and a new day is dawning.
Maybe I shall never act, and take this to my grave.
Or shall I reconquer my soul, become what is brave.
A man cannot hide from truth without his soul crumbling.
His mind shall return to it, despite its tumbling.
And here I am, on a Sunday evening, letting it fester.
Watching it mock me like the most honest jester.
And that is okay, for it reminds me that I am living.
Oh, beautiful Sunday, your honesty keeps on giving.

She came to the counter for her bridal bouquet.
Things were everywhere and cluttered.
Her flowers were on the counter.
I ring her up.

“Can I get a bag?” she says.
She leaves.
She doesn’t say thank you or goodbye,
which I thought was strange.
Just another crazy momzilla, I thought.
Turns out I was right.

My next shift, I get called into a quiet room with my manager.
I sit in a swivel chair, sitting up straight,
trying to look “professional”—
whatever that means when you’re sixteen.

“There’s been a complaint,” she says.
My heart drops straight to the floor.

Her paper reads:

Attitude Complaint.

I have an attitude?

“We use vases, not sleeves,” she says.
I didn’t know that.
How was I supposed to know that?

I don’t even remember her.
She seemed normal.

“It’s been a lot,” I say.
“That’s what I was going to ask you,” she replies.

Why am I here?
I come here to escape.
I come here to make money.
Not cry.

“Is everything okay at home?”
“Are you seeing a therapist?”

What do I even say to something like that?

“Yes.”

And now here I am.
In a back room.
A basket case.
Crying uncontrollably.
Because one customer decided
I wasn’t good enough.

Now here we are.
She’s reading off a three-page list
about taking orders,
doing things
the right way—
her way.

“Be descriptive.”
“Be more positive.”
“Represent the floral department.”
“Treat them with care—not knowing who they’re grieving,
or what they’re going through.”

I’m going through something too.

What if in that single moment,
I didn’t want to talk to a customer
like they were a God-sent angel from the heavens?

Am I not the sweet girl people say I am?
Were they lying?

Why does this happen to me?

That customer didn’t know—
My dad is in rehab for alcohol addiction.
I haven’t heard from my friends in months.
I hate the way I look.
I feel like I’m not enough for anyone.
I feel fat.
I compare myself to everyone.
And I didn’t want to talk to her either.

But the complaint?
I didn’t smile.
And I put her ******* bouquets
in sleeves
and paper bags.

That’s it.

That was enough to ruin my career in this store.
The one I started the second I turned sixteen.
The one I started because I loved flowers.
The one I went to—to get away.
To distract myself.

But every day,
I’m expected to smile.
To serve.
To fold.

Everyone’s grieving something.
But let’s be honest
I’m not sorry.

Steel pan in roadside dirt,
just beyond Exit 11: Quartzsite,
sun bouncing off like a flare.

Handle loose, rim dented,
but not ruined;
still whole enough.

It felt like one I swung
at Tomaso’s,
sweating
through the rush,
that night
we plated sixty covers
in under an hour.

Me, this pan,
were used
the way hard things are:
oiled, scrubbed,
flame-kissed and blackened.
Something thick stuck once,
then let go.

I lifted it,
right hand curved
around the handle
as though it never left.
Some things remember you
even when you forget yourself.

I set it in the backseat,
beside the blanket and bag.
thought I’d clean it up,
tighten the handle,
set it on flame,
hang it by a stove again.

I don’t believe in ghosts,
but I believe in steel,
in things that hold the heat
and give it back to you.

Welcome to the factory!
Where you will always be!

Keep following the one in front
No questions, just don’t

“It has always been this way”
That's something they’ll say

Welcome to the factory!
Where you will never be happy

They shoot you with red eyes
When you notice all their lies

They take away your soul
And replace it with their goal

Welcome to the factory!
Your value is based on salary

Don’t try to run away
Because you will be here till you decay

And those who will act crazy or emotional
Will be sentenced to a life-time custodial

The fallen knight

Who would have thought, he would be a fallen knight,
the once brave and mighty star has now fallen to his ashes.
All his praise has slowly been buried deep in people's minds,
as now he has become a fallen knight.
The one who once was hailed for his feats by the world,
and was in full glory, mortified by praises
has lost all of his praises and gloriousness.
As now, he has become a fallen knight
                                          
                                                                ­  __ Tess