“We’re almost there”

On Thursday, I found myself with a bleeding tongue

Warm water washed over my soapy hands as blood filled my mouth

I did not speak when he said

“We’re almost there.”

My scarred tongue is used to being bit open to keep the peace

To keep my secrets

What does “Friday’s Eve” even mean?

Constantly looking forward to ignore the conditions that sit between Monday – Friday

Working for the weekend,

I nod my head and hum in agreement “Hmmm ummm”

My mind begs him to leave as the iron in my mouth dizzies my consciousness

The crimson red laps at the damn I have built between

Work and Self

His footsteps recede past a closing door

Red violence burst into the restroom

What does it mean to “almost be there”? Where are we going? A weekend? A two-day reprieve?

Those words scratch at my eardrums… “Almost there”

It implies that there is an end, a destination, but what destination gets me out of this hell?

I don’t want a two-day reprieve from this constant work

This place reeks of shit! Managers' dead eyes, creaking bones clicking and clacking at keyboards

Wet coughs and faucet noses beg for home

but fear home because home is foreign during the workweek

To be sick is for the weekends, schedule to be sick then

“Almost there,” it makes my body ache with rage, the primal hair raises off my neck for an attack

My mind is in a frenzy; I have to rebuild the damn

My practiced words stanch my tongue's wound,

“I need my health insurance, I need to pay my rent.”

I play Maya’s voice over and over and let it wash over my tongue, stitching the jagged wound shut.

“I wear the mask.”

I look up from the sink. The warm water washed away the suds.

I smile and proceed back to my desk.

I look forward, ignore the dead eyes, the clicking and clacking, and unending wet coughs.

Just make it back to your desk,

We’re almost there.