Employment History You are bad at jobs. Sometimes you run because of the green depression blooming new against your springtime neck, your bulging fingertips blackened. The oil sizzles smug. Fryers lick at your apron. Every smile breaks you. So you quit again, the privilege of walking out never lost on you. You reify missed calls, bedsheets christened in your sad stink. Your lips run white. Your lover showers you with understanding and you barely respond. Respond. You are bad