I hate my job.

I am a night porter in a hotel and part of my duty is to see and forget.

I must forget how some people behave when the drinks are flowing, I see the smirks on the faces of the ones who think they are above me as I serve them their drinks and food.

I see the difference between the older ones who appreciate a bit of luxury and the younger ones who think that clicking fingers at a waiter makes them uber cool.

I see the old folk going to bed at 1030, and giving me a smile and a wave as they go, and the flash businessman who wants me to think he could get me fired because I am subservient to him.

I see the turds they leave in our swimming pool knowing I must fish them out at dead of night, and have the pool drained and cleaned before it can be used again.

I see our chefs after an 18 hour day as they leave the kitchen exhausted and dehydrated and I see the food they prepared and cooked thrown to the carpet because it looked good in someone's selfie.

I see young children crying in the rooms upstairs as their parents get drunk and flirt at the bar.

I forget the squabbling over who pays. I forget the cheap tip they leave me and I forget about the excrement left on the bedroom walls and bedsheets.

I forget about the drunken fights between loving couples who spit and swear at 3 in the morning.

I forget about the people so pumped over how big and important they are that they strut about like peacocks in their cheap clothes as they try and impress me for a free drink.

I hate my job.

i. smile for me once more

heart of sheer clouded crystal

already; lost cause.

ii. truth or dare, he asks

kiss me or kill me, i think.

questions and answers.

iii. in those short, one word

replies, all i can think is:

wow. he texted me.

Sweet words

Hard to speak

Nervous laughter

And blushed cheeks

Build up courage

The words pour out

Instant terror

Filled with doubt

Wondering now

What to do

Until he answers

I like you too

I'm sorry I wasn't there

When you were crying all alone.

I'm sorry I wasn't there

When you called me on my phone.

I'm sorry I wasn't there

When you needed me the most,

And I'm sorry I wasn't there

So I could hold you close.

But most of all I'm sorry for

All the pain that I've caused,

But when I tried to really love you

I felt nothing at all.

I don't work, I slave.

I hate the bums I have to see every day.

I hate lying customers.

I hate the customer that called me a Bitch.

I hate that bitch.

I hate washing tables after people my age because they're too childish to clean up after themselves.

I hate working drive through and seeing parents that are high driving their children to get food off the dollar menu. I'm not talking about I smoked some weed high either, I'm talking about my head is falling and my eyes are rolling to the back of my head while my soul takes a flight off of something stronger type of high.

I hate it.

I hate the town I work in, Buckroe, screaming crawling and hungry crackheads everywhere. They order large portions while slurring their speech, trying to flirt, and anxious to eat.

I hate having to walk home from work in the environment, mind you I'm only 18.

I hate walking to work. In both conditions it's cold, freezing my poor brittle bones aching cold.

Most of all, I hate getting paid minimum wage for all the shit I go through and I don't get to keep half my checks because I always have to give my mom some portion, so yes, I am slaving.

Fuck McDonald's.

I must attain an education.