by Desmond King

On Thursday I found myself with a bleeding tongue

Warm water washed over my soapy hands, blood filling my mouth 

I did not speak when he said

“We’re almost there”

My tongue is used to being bit open, to keep the peace

To keep secrets 

What does “Friday’s Eve” even mean?

Constantly looking forward, to ignore the conditions that sit between Monday – Friday 

Working for the weekend, 

I nod my head and hum in agreement “hmmm ummm”

My mind begs him to leave as the iron in my mouth dizzies my consciousness


I have built a dam between 

Work and Self 

His footsteps recede past a closing door

What does it mean to be almost be there?

Where are we going? A weekend? A two-day reprieve? 

Those words scratch at my ear drums

It implies an end, a destination

What destination gets me out of this hell? 

I don’t want a two-day reprieve 


To be sick is for the weekends, schedule to be sick then 

my body aches with rage, hair raising off my neck for attack 

My mind is in a frenzy, I have to rebuild the damn

Practiced words:

Health insurance. 


Looking up from the sink, 

I smile and proceed back to my desk. 

I ignore the dead eyes, the clicking and clacking of keyboards, the unending wet coughs

Just make it back to your desk,

We’re almost there.