Grasping for air,
struggling for breath—
but here they come,
asking for air in my chest.
I ain’t got none left.
I’m barely holding
what I already hold,
but they still toss
their anchors to my soul,
like I’m some shelf
that don’t bend.
Like I’m some flame
that won’t end.
But I’m burning through the seams—
patched-up dreams
and grease-stained beams,
arms shaking
from the weight of things
that don’t even belong to me.
Still, I carry them
like prep lists.
Like pans with no handles.
Like 86’d hope
and half-lit candles.
And I’m tired,
Lord—I’m tired.
Each breath’s a loan
I can’t afford.
Each ask
another slammed walk-in door.
I’m dragging my feet
across a tile floor
slick with pressure
and unpaid chores.
I clock in with bruises,
leave with burns.
Trade hours for dollars
I already earned
three paychecks ago.
And I’m supposed to glow?
Supposed to smile
while the tickets stack
like insults?
While the chef barks
like I ain't broke
and breaking?
I’m inches from collapse,
palms raw
from grabbing hot handles
bare-handed,
and all I hear is
“Pick it up!”
“Make it faster!”
“Move like you want it!”
Like I ain’t been sprinting
on fumes
since my first damn shift.
Like I ain’t been
biting curses
with my teeth.
Stirring rage
into the soup
beneath.
So maybe I let it fall.
Let the plates crash.
Let the line go dark.
Let the pans sit cold
while I finally walk
out that back door
into silence.
'Cause I been bleeding
behind this apron,
stuffing the pain
into kitchen towels,
working through breaks
I never get,
for praise
I never hear,
from people
who’d never last
an hour in my skin.
This ain’t food service—
it’s survival.
It’s war with a spatula.
Hell in a hairnet.
It’s the sound of your name
shouted like a curse,
and you answering
like it don’t hurt.
But it does.
And I’m done.
So let it fall.
Let the grill go quiet.
Let the orders fade.
Let me be
for once
unmade.
And maybe then,
you’ll finally see—
I was never built
to carry everything
©manyfaces
M