'Weak'

"I was screwed to the point of being
brainwashed," I said to my current colleague.
It was a prior workplace where screwing
was a daily affair. One could not afford
to say "I don’t know." You’d get an earful
for that. Where I was then, "I don’t know"
also meant "I don’t care."
"Ask someone else."
"It isn't my business."
"I prefer my hands to remain clean, thank you."
"Find the answer yourself."
"Fuck you."

The world only moves with the presence
of knowledge, but there he was, my manager,
a balding man, trying to pin
the blame on someone instead. Me,
I couldn't contend with all the birds,
my aged opposites,
who feigned blank faces
so automatically.

And so I flew,
not knowing where I’d land. I danced
for five months between little things.
I breathed smoke for the first time.

And when I heard that the whole factory
was falling to pieces later, I was comforted.

I felt it was some sort of compensation
from above: it happened simply
because I left. But it’s messed up:
how heavy it is nowadays for me to say,
"I don’t know" and mean it,
and feel offended when others do the same,
like I've eaten from the Tree
of Knowledge and can’t give it back.