Friday, April 1, 2011

Scrap Paper

Standing in front of my boss and handing him a letter of resignation, I feel the butterflies tickling at the walls of my stomach.  But, at the same time, I am relieved.

I stand there raw.
I am apologetic.  I am meek.
The look of shock and hurt on his face digs a hole in my chest.

He stumbles over his words and mumbles promises for retention.  My eyes stare at the wall.  The desk.  The sunlight through the window behind him.  Everywhere to avoid meeting his.

As I walk back to my desk, I feel robbed.  I was expecting a great weight to be lifted. 
Instead, two weights rest on opposite shoulders, tugging me both ways. .. but both downwards, to collapse.

By day’s end, I sit at my desk with my folded up letter of resignation laying on my keyboard, mocking me.
It’s wrinkled, creased and has been used as scrap paper.

Sloppy handwriting scrawled on the back of my words; my sad attempt at gaining control now merely a canvas for someone else’s leftover thoughts.

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