I stand in the kitchen
and cry each day
before heading into work

Beat down by systems and
administrators and politics
the things no one tells you about

when they ask
“What do you want to be
when you grow up?”

When my future self looks back
after the heart attack
the evidence will be clear

every tear another shred of stress
gripping tighter and tighter
an unending cycle of torment

my breathing slows to shudders
as I hold my travel mug and work bag
“Okay,” I exhale. “I’m ready.”

[Prompt 2: Write a poem from the point of view of yourself, ten years ago.]