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Fire: freelancing for Death

I was fire,
this cloud around my chest and torso was fire,
this goddamned call center was fire!

spitting cigar dreams.

customers keep yelling,
I die a little more inside
the bottom of this shitty stained revolving office chair,
overpriced coffee in reach.

but the pay checks were decent.
so all the broken people
with broken dreams
shuffled in single file
for hours of bullshit to carry on.
broken.

I commend them
but not myself.
I hold on to these words like a Christian frantically grasps at a bible at the first sign of trouble.
still, I hold on.

quiver in the 5 seconds between calls for a breath.
Written by samael (Zaroff poetry)
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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