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

This is the great trial
Of being alive
Right now

It is necessary
for all of us
to view ourselves
accurately
in the pre
Apocalypse

And yet
because of this
it is also
absolutely vital
to imagine
and work
and dream
of a world
that is different

Time is out,

Tomorrow watches me - I look back,
Building a chair in anticipation of my arrival It whispers to me,
“You’ll never be ready”

I blame myself,
The silence that filled moments,
Times I should’ve listened
To the effort that was screaming to be,

A knife i stuck in my own back,
The knife I placed there
The knife that I wanted to be the reason I failed?

Did I ever want to succeed?

Did I avoid trying so I had more to blame than just not being able to cut it?

I don’t try, I don’t succeed.
What… do I expect of me?

When moments of need
Moments in which I should’ve done more,
I stood still.
Contemplating a life that I’m not fighting for-

And now it’s too late,
Time is short— what-else is left,
But to now sit in thought,
Alone with the understanding,

That I did this.
I hurt myself.
I deserve the failure that will consume me.

Was time too short,
Or did I just ignore it.

When I sat at my laptop one day, I heard my windows flip out. They weren’t happy with their salary.
  “Ours is too high! Give us less!”
  “Yeah, you’re spoiling us!”

I went on with my everyday tasks, however, I told myself:
  “Wait, why would I give them a salary, even?”

So I stopped paying them for at least 6 hours.

The next day, they were cloudy.

I said:
  “Where’s the sunlight?”

They responded:
  “Our salary is too low! Give more!”

I was, to be fair, extremely confused, yet it made sense. I opened a window halfway, and they groaned. I sprayed them with glass cleaner, and they wept.

I said:
  “Why do you always complain?”

The windows finally opened themselves, slowly, and said something that opened my eyes:
  “Because labor with no meaning is torture.”

Lazy *******.

the lockers rife with clowns and the frittering of time as the ***** boys got ready to work their ***** minds down at the ***** factory and boast about ***** things too often degrading and unkind.

I tried to stay out of it
until one officious co-worker
had the gall to ask,
“what’s your preference in women?”

whereby, my response was,

“I see my women like flavors;
white women are too bland,
black women are too flavorful and
Indian women are a bit over-seasoned.
you need the right amount of spice.
Latina women got it but they cheat
so, I’d have to go with Asian women.
they’re perfection is unmatched.”

laughter emerged and rumbled
down the grey factory walls
where the metal tin roof had rattled,
the ***** air pervaded with rust and tears
and a mouthful of peanuts were spat onto a grimy floor

they laughed and kept on laughing
until their bellies burst

never have they heard such
a response like that before

and I just went back to work,
treading in the depths of my own conviction,
not really seeing why I wasn’t
being taken so
seriously.