i grind graphite like a girl shelling shrimp for five cents an hour.
the product of her work shows no toil,
no toil at all in its juicy, lustrous fat -
she throws the exoskeleton into the ocean before her fingers begin to bleed and it makes no sound.
her wails are trapped by the chastising hush of waves, enveloped by the menacing scars on her fresh hands

i sharpen pencils like her
the product of my work shows no toil,
no toil at all in its fine, glinting peak -
i throw the refuse into the fire before my blisters begin to fill with fluid and it leaves no ash
my blackened fingers are soothed by the steady whisper of tap water but i carry the dead skin forever