I’m tired of taking orders, answering phone calls, wasting time
sweeping floors that aren’t mine, working for daniel/david/lester,
being annoyed by becky/lindsey/heather, getting all my customers stolen
cause I’m not the pretty girl at the bar, leaving sighs like an ameteur sleuth
that I don’t want to be here, going to/leaving work broke — I’m just tired.
Tired of telling trauma not today, Satan. Telling grief and depression not today, Satan.
Telling being human and feeling not any day but especially not today. I’m tired
of being the Black girl in your workshop/workplace, tired of teaching
how not to be racist/sexist/stupid, tired of talking when no one’s listening
and shaking my head to your senile status quo. In a perfect world,
I’d be somewhere away from here, running swift with my pink slip
ready to slit anyone who dismissed me with heart-bleeding bliss
and sit in your white-ass classroom with a grin, waiting on my turn to spit
my needed feedback on your Black girl poem, not wondering if this
is where I’m supposed to be. I’d finally have money to get my A/C fixed, lose enough
weight for old jeans to fit, then get drinks at Stonewall to reminisce
on a time when I wasn’t tired, and smoking weed/taking risks
were the only sins I embraced, heart full with love, hands dripping with possibility.