***trigger warning: violence, suicide***
I ceased to be
a human being
long before I quit the last job.
So hated was I that he couldn’t stand
my name being written
Not my locker, not on files,
not the cutesy calendar we got
to team-buildingly write our birthdays on.
My crime was trying to see
the best in everyone, to help everyone,
to forgive little mistakes, and generally being kind.
He, the cynic, became jealous
of all the love I was receiving, decided
my light needed to be snuffed
(driven to madness)
He needed to be the hero so bad
that he was willing to be
every kind of villain to get it.
All the work would be left to me
while everyone else was invited
outside for smoke breaks.
More work was pushed on me
through power trip refusals; if it was undesirable,
I had to do it
no matter how burdensome it all became.
Who cared if I got tired?
Maybe I would quit
(snap and get myself fired)
His colleagues saw what was happening,
admitting he was wrong, but they were spineless,
scared to risk landing on his bad side.
I could only go upward,
pull aside the senior management and beg
for help or I was going to leave
but they didn’t know the cynic’s job,
deeming it more important to protect his knowledge
than my dignity as a human being.
There was no force for good.
Just a narrative spun by the cynic
turning everyone against me.
There was no love, only poison
bleeding into dreams of justice
in the form of his bald spot
Any day could have been that day at the end
when there was nothing left in my spiritual stores
to hold me back.
Only a sense of purpose kept me together.
To fade away quietly would give nothing to the world;
neither would making an angel of an earthly devil
but to write about it shines inspiration–
this visceral reminder that anyone can be on the brink
coming from one who clawed his way back.