The stains that won’t wash away

 

Today I’m left feeling like that ink pen that explodes in your apron.

Anyone who’s ever served tables knows what I’m talking about.

That rouge pen that migrated to the bottom of your apron pocket, only to explode;

And cover everything in your apron with thick, black ink.

Including your hands.

Your order pad.

Your money.

And everything else you need to do your job.

It doesn’t destroy, just complicates.

It doesn’t stop you from doing your job, just makes it harder.

 

Today, I am that pen that didn’t destroy; I just complicated things.

I am that pen that didn’t stop you from doing your job, I just made it harder.

I am those smeared, sticky black ink marks that won’t quite wash off your hands.

I am those ink marks that permeate through everything you need.

I am that ink that stains your work shirt permanently.

I cling to you.

The filthy, sloppy, sad reminder of the pen that betrayed you.

Today, I am that pen.

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