the job interviews

frantic fingers falling through my hair,

as i politely stare, into the abyss of nothingness.

am i dressed alright? Is this skirt too tight? Am I here too early?

Am I late?

The smiles which devour me whole, as i of course, as i

shake your hand-(always shake their hand-good grip nice and tight but solid)

frantic fingers falling through my hair.

(do i have lip-stick on my teeth-ugh-too late)

They fire their questions, uzi-style, rapid-fire and

often they ask me questions i totally do not know,

like how much i would like to make an hour-that one i fall down often enough,

because then they give the real answer of how much they will pay.

Questions too, like do i mind if a client becomes violent?

Gee-whiz no-who would mind that?

there often seems to be a hidden cheat sheet-multiple choice=always choose C.

If i sound bitter, i am not, i am just a bit broken and wore out.

Nobody seems excited to meet me, instead they are looking

for a sense of urgent perfection, i cannot measure up to.

So yes, frantic, fingers falling through my hair,

as i try to not fuss, fidget or wiggle,

Knowing I probably won’t make the cut,

my dial is always stuck on

self-destruct.

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