they say you don't know what goes on behind closed doors,

and once I slam one getting out of my car I'm not sure I know either

going from ...that, to a shift, is a shift to be sure

I'm left shaking, the routine bittersweet cure

is work

swept into service, stacking Sierra mist refills I build walls between me and critical thoughts, no stops

but the sickly saccharine way I whisper

nothing happened

blink my server syrup eyes

that didn’t happen

shooting stomach pain

Sure, I’ll make it happen!

I clocked in so late today but if I ring tickets

and wash dishes

and draw blood from broken cups maybe my bruises will mix with red wine enough to stop

getting looks

it's exhausting.

Whose laughter is more nervous,

Mine? Or my coworker’s?

I don’t know

dodging eye contact like flashbacks

They do

don’t ask, it

Hey girl!

And yet

what happened this morning?

A soft prayer my manager would just guess

But under my caked concealer and cherry eyes he just sees dessert service

I'm sorry Matt.

Painting a smile seems impossible these days but so is telling the truth

either I'll be there before six or another sour scar will,

scored knuckles from knife sorting and people pleasing like it's my job

yet, at home I never clock in

Pull off my apron along with my mask,

My nonslip shoes that sound off on the floorboards.

I work there for a living. I work here to survive