Corporate

In every job in corporate America, I have been or will be obligated, to keep a certain set of knives.

These knives are made, not of metal, but thought and deed, sharpened on a whetstone of ossified compassion.

I carry them daily, alongside my laptop and cell.

In every job in corporate America, I have been or will be surrounded, by beautiful people, living to work.

They are intelligent, sincere, and eager to be of use. They wish only to belong.

I am told they are my family.

In every job in corporate America, I have been or will be asked, to plunge a knife into the back of my coworker’s skull, in the crook where the atlas and occipital meet.

At best, I pretend this was pure accident. At worst, an unintended consequence.

It is a lie. They know it.

In every job in corporate America, I have been or will be tasked, with betraying my family.

We are told it can’t be helped—that there is no pleasure in the fresh trickle of warm blood. That there is no taste to be savored.

It is a lie. I know it. Ω