Poetry

Litanies Against Dying, 15 (197.)

It’s a mantra
against myself,
a warning of slow self-destruction
through endless criticism,
death by a thousand cuts.
Every day is another chance to do
the dance perfectly,
every small step landing
in exactly the right place,
and a tiny slip-up
plasters my face in anguish.
I can’t take this self-made hell.
Some of my co-workers
(friends at work, I’d like to call them)
have noticed it, and they’ve
told me, a few times, not to worry
about fitting the productivity mold.
“Do work when it works for you,”
“Don’t worry about getting here at a certain time,”
it’s like,
the most forgiving and amazing culture.
I lucked out.
Other places might call me out for my
inconsistency,
but where I’m at,
I can get things done
however I want,
and as long as the work is done
and it’s good,
everything’s cool.
That’s the mantra:
everything’s cool.

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