I signed my name “Human Resource” when I wrote out a check to my rapist yesterday. I forgot all of my settings. This was the second time this time it happened. I had changed my mind about the lipstick when I stepped off the bus, wiped it off mid-sidewalk, the tissue with that bloody look—people couldn’t help but watch. We all know a boss deep in us, we were always little tyrants, and we want to see it acted out, then put in a supply drawer, a desk organizer. At least this is what I think. Two weeks of paid time off did nothing for my bottom line. My seams are still showing. Despite the humanitarian fictions I had brought along, I couldn’t stop thinking about all of the time I wasn’t paid to be on. My template hadn’t accounted for the line of bottoms in brightly colored swimwear along the shore. And then when I came inbox, at the turn of the key, there were only that many more voices in the mail, bursting out with so many Chinese gift catalogues. The world full of gifts, my gifts to the world. I meant to follow-up on the proposal to follow through on following one’s heart, but had to wrap up the project under wraps, an untitled document.
LA PETITE ZINE 24 · EMOTIONAL RESCUE
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Megin Jimenez's poems have appeared in BARROW STREET, LIT, and REDIVIDER. She is a graduate of The New School Writing Program and lives in Brooklyn. She has been recently blogging at Best American Poetry.